Classic Poem

To seeke for case where wee are borne to toile
Is but to rest in toile, and toile in rest:
To toile for case where Slouth may worke our spoile,
Is but, by ease, to bee ease dispossest:
They fish, and catch a Frogg, which so do fishe
That, saue the Soules repose, catch all they wishe.

Its better farre to giue our Soules to rest:
In Patience, then in Pleasures, sith they doo,
Sweetly (like rubbings of a Ytch) molest,
But, patience gladds vs while Paines us vndoo:
Then giue me Patience, and let Pleasures go,
As that which workes in sport, our ouerthro.

That comfort I detest that takes from mee
Vncessant sorrow, for vncessant sinne:
Nor loue I that sharpe Sight that all doth see
Saue onely That which is my selfe within:
That Knowledge is as coorse as counterfeit,
That makes Men vtterlie them selues forget.

Giue me an Hell of paine, so I may haue
The Heauen which a Conscience sound doth giue:
Sith hee is but vncessaunt Sorrowes Slaue,
That, sick in Soule in pleasures Heau'n doth liue:
If Patience Hiue the Soule in Sorrowes Swarmes
She Heau'n enioyeth in an Hell of Harmes.

Who rightlie Knowes him selfe, him selfe contemnes:
And though men clappe their hands in his applause
Yet hee their praises, with him selfe, condempnes
By euidence of Conscience, and hir Lawes:
The cause why others flatter vs, with ease,
Is wee our selues our selues too well do please.

How much the more our knowledge al surmounts
So much the lower we in Hel shal fal,
If when we come to make our last accounts,
Our vertue be not found much more then al:
And simply better t'were from Sinne to flee,
Then cunningly Define what Sinne should bee.

With brightest Knowledge to liue most obscure
Is to find Hea'n, which in that Light doth lie:
Yet like the Sunne, through thick Clouds couertuere,
To light the World that Men may walke thereby:
So doth the Highst obscure himself from sight
While all that see, do see but by his Light.

What neede wee seeke quaint words, and Phrases fine,
Sith by one Word al Truth is knowne alone:
Which Word made al things by his pow'r Diuine:
So, all things by that Word are only knowne:
Then, they that learne this onelie World to know
Know more then World, or Witt it selfe, can show.

All other knowledge doth but vex the Sp'rite,
Though hir it makes much more intelligent:
In it, alone, is knowledge, with Delight:
Sith it the Witt, doth cleare, the Will, content:
Then they that know this single-simple Worde
Do know much more then Knowledge can afforde.

No State so holie, nor no place so Sole
(Much more no Science) but is full of Doubt:
Cares, creeping, fill each solitarie Hole;
And many more vexations swarme without:
And till wee leaue the World, or wayward Will.
Wee beare with vs a World of trouble still.

Then, tis not shun'd by flight, vnlesse wee could
Flie from our selues, (our aduersaries chiefe)
For, while our selues our selues haue fast in hold,
Wee hold our selues to Sinne and so to Griefe:
For, they that griue not when they do transgresse,
Short pleasures feele, not extreame wretchednesse:

The lack of Will in faith still fixt to bee
Is the sole cause wee want our true repose:
For, who so blinde as they that will not see,
And who more subiect to hard ouerthrowes:
Ineuitable Sorrowes still attend
On none but on the wilfull, past their end!

To shunne the Tempter we must shut the Gate
Of our Intelligence against his Charmes;
Or, lest he should our Will predominate,
Repulse him from our Witt, by force of Armes:
If yet he stands, vpon him straight Discharge
Truthes double Cannon, with a double Charge.
Then will he flie, or if he stands he falls;
For nothing can resist his Ordinance
Who makes the meekest Mindes his Generalls,
That, yeelding, fight, and folle by sufferance:
O tis a wonderous Conquest when a Foe
By ouercomming hath the ouerthro!
The longer wee forbeare him to withstand
The weaker are wee when wee do resist,
And much the stronger is hee to commaund;
For thoughts are actiue when they do persist:
Because Thoughts tranell, with Delight, in paine,
Till hee bee borne, and they conceaue againe.

Greate Troubles well are borne, by bearing small
As Milo Calfe, turn'd Bull at last:
They in the roughest Tempests needs must fall
That are orethrowne with eury little Blast:
In Summe, the Summe of all our earthlie ioy
Is in our patient bearing all annoy.