IX. I JOHN II. XVII.
The world passeth away, and all the lusts thereof.
1
Draw neare, brave sparks, whose spirits scorne to light
Your hallow'd Tapours, but at Honours flame;
You, whose heroick Actions take delight
To varnish over a new painted name;
Whose high-bred thoughts disdaine to take their flight,
But on th'Icarian wings of babbling Fame,
Behold, how tottring are your high-built stories
Of earth, whereon you trust the groundwork of your Glories.
2
And you, more brain-sick Lovers, that can prize
A wanton smile before eternall Joyes;
That know no heav'n but in your Mistresse eyes;
That feele no pleasure but what sense enjoyes;
That can, like crowne-distemper'd fooles despite
True riches, and like Babies, whine for Toyes;
Think ye, the pageants of your hopes are able
To stand secure on earth, when earth it selfe's unstable?
3
Come dunghill worldlings; you, that root like swine,
And cast up golden Trenches, where ye come;
Whose onely pleasure is to undermine,
And view the secrets of your mothers wombe;
Come bring your Saint, pouch'd in his leather Shrine,
And summon all your griping Angels home;
Behold your world, the Bank of all your store;
The world ye so admire; the world ye so adore.
4
A feeble world; whose hot-mouth'd pleasures tyre
Before the Race; before the start, retrait;
A faithlesse world, whose false delights expire
Before the terme of half their promis'd Date;
A fickle, world; not worth the least desire,
Where ev'ry Change proclaimes a Change of State:
A feeble, faithlesse, fickle world, wherein
Each motion proves a vice, and ev'ry Act, a Sin.
5
The Beauty, that of late, was in her flowre;
Is now a ruine, not to raise a Lust;
He that was lately drench'd in Danaes showre
Is Master, now, of neither Gold, nor Trust;
Whose Honour, late, was mann'd with princely pow'r,
His glory now lies buried in the dust;
O who would trust this world, or prize what's in it,
That gives and takes, and chops, and changes ev'ry minit!
6
Nor length of dayes, nor solid strength of Braine
Can find a place wherein to rest secure;
The world is various, and the Earth is vaine;
There's nothing certaine here; there's nothing sure;
We trudge, we travell but from paine to paine,
And what's our onely griefe's our onely Cure:
The World's a Torment; he that would endeaver
To find the way to Rest, must seek the way to leave her.
S. GREG. in ho.
Behold, the world is withered in it self, yet flourishes in our hearts; every
where, death; every where griefe; on every side fill'd with bitternesse, and yet
with the blind mind of carnall desire we love her bitternesse; It flies, and we
follow it; it fals, yet we sticke to it: And because we cannot enjoy it fallen,
we fall with it: and enjoy it fallen.
EPIGRAM 9.
[If Fortune hale, or envious Time but spurne]
If Fortune hale, or envious Time but spurne,
The world turnes round; and, with the world, we turne;
When Fortune sees, and Lynx-ey'd Time is blind,
I'le trust thy Joyes, O world, Till then, the Wind.
