XCI. John Hagthorpe

EARTH, thou art a barren field

Of delight and true contending;

All the pleasures thou dost yeeld

Give but cause of sad lamenting.

Where desires

Are the fires,

Still our soules tormenting.

Riches, honour, dignitie,

Are the highway to misfortune;

Greatnesse is a lethargie

That to death can soon transport one.

To be faire

Causeth care,

Gifts chaste thoughts importune.

To be wittie, quick of tongue,

Sorrow to themselves returneth;

To be healthfull, young, and strong,

Feeds the flames where passion burneth.

Yet doe men

Couet them

More than what adorneth.

To have friends and louers kind,

That vs round enuiron;

Wife and children, though we find,

These be robes that best attire one;

Yet their losse

Is a crosse,

Melting hearts of iron.

To be perfect here, and wise,

Is to know our indiscretions;

And our goodnes chiefly lies

In observing our transgressions:

For we dwell

As in hell,

Thrall to bad impressions.

Then, alas! why long we so

With lou’d sorrow still to languish?

Is there ought on earth but woe,

Aye renewing cares and anguish?

Where new feares

Still appeares,

Darts at vs to brandish.