LXIII. William Drummond

A GOOD that neuer satisfies the minde,

A beautie fading like the Aprile flowres,

A sweete with floods of gall that runnes combin’d,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,

A honour that more fickle is than winde,

A glorie at opinion’s frowne that lowres,

A treasurie which banckrupt time deuoures,

A knowledge than graue ignorance more blinde,

A vaine delight our equalles to command,

A style of greatnesse in effect a dreame,

A swelling thought of holding sea and land,

A seruile lot deckt with a pompous name,—

Are the strange endes we toyle for heere below,

Till wisest death make vs our errores know.