| FAREWEL ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles, | |
| Farewel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; | |
| Fame 's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, | |
| Honour the darling but of one short day. | |
| Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damasked skin, | 5 |
| State but a golden prison, to keepe in | |
| And torture free-born minds; imbroidered trains | |
| Meerly but Pageants, proudly swelling vains, | |
| And blood ally'd to greatness, is a loane | |
| Inherited, not purchased, not our own. | 10 |
| Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood and birth, | |
| Are but the fading blossomes of the earth. | |
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| I would be great, but that the Sun doth still | |
| Level his rayes against the rising hill: | |
| I would be high, but see the proudest Oak | 15 |
| Most subject to the rending Thunder-stroke; | |
| I would be rich, but see men too unkind | |
| Dig in the bowels of the richest mine; | |
| I would be wise, but that I often see | |
| The Fox suspected whilst the Ass goes free; | 20 |
| I would be fair, but see the fair and proud | |
| Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; | |
| I would be poor, but know the humble grass | |
| Still trampled on by each unworthy Asse: | |
| Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; | 25 |
| Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; hight, stil envied more: | |
| I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither, | |
| Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair, poor I'l be rather. | |
| |
| Would the world now adopt me for her heir, | |
| Would beauties Queen entitle me the Fair, | 30 |
| Fame speak me fortune's Minion, could I vie | |
| Angels with India, with a speaking eye | |
| Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb | |
| As wel as blind and lame, or give a tongue | |
| To stones, by Epitaphs, be called great Master | 35 |
| In the loose rhimes of every Poetaster; | |
| Could I be more then any man that lives, | |
| Great, fair, rich, wise all in Superlatives; | |
| Yet I more freely would these gifts resign | |
| Then ever fortune would have made them mine, | 40 |
| And hold one minute of this holy leasure, | |
| Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. | |
| |
| Welcom pure thoughts, welcom ye silent groves, | |
| These guests, these Courts, my soul most dearly loves, | |
| Now the wing'd people of the Skie shall sing | 45 |
| My cheerful Anthems to the gladsome Spring; | |
| A Pray'r book now shall be my looking-glasse, | |
| Wherein I will adore sweet vertues face. | |
| Here dwell no hateful looks, no Pallace cares, | |
| No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears, | 50 |
| Then here I'l sit and sigh my hot loves folly, | |
| And learn t'affect an holy melancholy. | |
| And if contentment be a stranger, then | |
| I'l nere look for it, but in heaven again. | |
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