Classic Poem

Rule o're thy self, the Worlds Epitome;
Then Charls the Great, thus thou maist greater be.
Not second Charls , but second unto none;
Not where he lost, gain where he gain'd a Throne.
See sixty Scottish Kings purpled with blood:
To be beast like for sacrifice crown'd, is't good?
I lift each day a hand for thee in prayer:
To raise thee up by blood, I none can rear.
Of one dayes rule, a Tyrant hear complain,
Him happy call, din'd, and resign'd again.
Hear a fourth Henry tell his son, a Crown,
Did he but know the weight, hee'd slight it down.
Who carries loads on's head, must ev'nly go;
And they who gain them Crowns, had need do so.
O who would wish a loaden Asses pack?
Yet Honour galls, more then it galls the back.
The Worlds Magnifico's all day laden are;
With Conscience gall'd, to ground at length repair.
The world abounds with men that doe abound;
That knows to do it, scarce a man is found.
Transported pride doth God forget by pelf,
Her neighbour Avarice, th' Prodigall himself.
Hence ith' worlds bucket, like the Captives wheel,
As one goes up, another down doth reel.
Honour's a shadow, interpose a cloud,
And a perpetual darknesse doth it shrowd.
In chase, then purchase we more pleasing finde,
Too great for bodies, little for the minde:
Lesse then wee'd have, more then to use we know,
So both superfluous, and defective too.
In valour, strength, and Allies, who would trust,
Which Diamond-like are cut by their own dust.
What's built on smoke, how can it lasting be?
The worlds Foundation's laid in Vanity.
See Otho fall, Fift Charls resign a Throne,
That Eagle-like he may mount heav'n for one:
Though like a King of Jews , thou thorns dost wear,
Rejoice with him, thy Kingdome is not here.
'Bout names we trifle, and forget the thing:
Wouldst be a slave to slaves? Then be a King.