Classic Poem

Englished.

It is not, y' are deceav'd, it is not blisse
What you conceave a happy living is;
To have your hands with Rubies bright to glow,
Then on your Tortoise-bed your body throw,
And sink your self in Down, to drink in gold,
And have your looser self in purple roll'd;
With Royal fare to make the Tables groan,
Or else with what from Lybick fields is mown,
Nor in one vault hoard all your Magazine;
But at no Cowards fate t' have frighted bin,
Nor with the peoples breath to be swol'n great,
Nor at a drawn Stiletto basely sweat.
He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit,
But proud o' th' top of Fortunes wheel may sit.