Classic Poem

My mounting Minde, my never staide Conceit,
Hath built a stately Castle in the Aire:
Which Jove his lightning Fire, nor his fierce thret,
Nor Fate, nor Fortune, nor ought els doth feare.
 Founded it is upon two running Wheeles,
 The Gates of dust and winde (still turning reeles.)

Thousands of Motes are digd about the same,
Which are capritious Humors fond and Toyes:
The Skouts and Guards therof, Hopes dead and vaine;
The Food therein preparde, false fleeting Joyes;
 The fencing Walles are framde of fierce Desire,
 Which dreads nor Seas, nor earth, nor force, nor fire.

The Armours, framed are in running Head,
Of foolish Boldnes, and of pensive Feare,
Which None knowes how they should be managed,
Nor how the same gainst others right to beare:
 The Shot, Munition, and Artillerie,
 Are divers Thoughts which in the Fancie lie.

The Castellane doth fight against himselfe,
Having nought els his souldiers for to pay,
But with Ambition which is all his wealth:
Judge then my state, and marke my firmest stay.
 O LOVE how long learne shall I in thy Schoole?
 The more I learne, I (still) doe prove more Foole.