To be laid in the ballance, it is altogether lighter than vanitie.
1
Put in another weight: 'Tis yet, too light:
And yet. Fond Cupid put another in;
And yet, another: Still there's under weight;
Put in another Hundred: Put agin:
Add world to world; then heape a thousand more
To that; then, to renew thy wasted store,
Take up more worlds on trust, to draw thy Balance lower.
2
Put in the flesh, with all her loads of pleasure;
Put in great Mammons endlesse Inventory;
Put in the pondrous Acts of mighty Caesar;
Put in the greater weight of Suedens Glory;
Add Scipios gauntlet; put in Platos Gowne;
Put Circes Charmes, put in the Triple Crowne,
Thy Balance will not draw; thy Balance will not downe.
3
LORD, what a world this is; which, day and night,
Men seek with so much toyle, with so much trouble!
Which, weigh'd in equall Scales, is found so light,
So poorely over-balanc'd with a Bubble;
Good GOD! that frantick mortals should destroy
Their higher Hopes, and place their idle Joy
Upon such ayry Trash, upon so light a Toy!
4
Thou bold Imposture, how hast thou befool'd
The tribe of Man, with counterfeit desire!
How has the breath of thy false bellowes cool'd
Heav'ns free-borne flames, and kindled bastard fire!
How hast thou vented Drosse instead of treasure,
And cheated man with thy false weights and measure,
Proclaiming Bad for Good; and gilding death with pleasure!
5
The world's a crafty Strumpet, most affecting,
And closely following those that most reject her;
But seeming carelesse, nicely disrespecting
And coyly flying those that most affect her:
If thou be free, shee's strange; if strange, shee's free;
Flee, and she followes; Follow, and shee'l flee;
Than she there's none more coy; there's none more fond than she.
6
O, what a Crocadilian world is this,
Compos'd of trech'ries, and ensnaring wiles!
She cloathes destruction in a formall kisse,
And lodges death in her deceitfull smiles:
She huggs the soule she hates; and, there, does prove
The veryest Tyrant, where she vowes to love
And is a Serpent most, when most she seemes a Dove.
7
Thrice happy He, whose nobler thoughts despise
To make an Object of so easie Gaines;
Thrice happy He, who scornes so poore a Prize
Should be the Crowne of his heroick paines:
Thrice happy He, that nev'r was borne to trie
Her frownes or smiles; or, being borne, did lie
In his sad Nurses Armes an houre or two, and die.
S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.
O you that dote upon this world, for what victory do ye fight? Your hopes
can be crown'd with no greater reward than the world can give: and what is the
world but a brittle thing full of dangers, wherein we travell from lesser to
greater perills? O let all her vaine, light, and momentary glory perish with
her selfe, and let us be conversant with more eternall things: Alas, this world
is miserable: life is short, and death is sure.
