Classic Poem

What pleasure can this gaudy world afford?
What true delight does Teeming Nature hoard?
In Her great Store-house, where She lays her Treasure
Alas! tis all the Shaddow of a Pleasure;
No true content in all Her works are found
No solled joys in all Earths Spacious Round
For Labouring Man, who toyles himself in vaine
Eagerly grasping what creates his paine
How false and feeble, Nay scarce worth a Name
Are Riches, Honour Power, and Babling fame
Yet tis for those Men wade through Seas of Blood,
And bold in Mischief, Storm to be withstood
Which when Obtained breed but Stupendious feare
Strife, jealousies, and Sleep-Disturbing Care;
No Beam of Comfort, not a Ray of Light
Shines thence to guide us thrô Fates Gloomy Night
But lost in Dismall Darkness there we Stay
Bereft of Reason in an Endless way
Vertu's the Souls true good if any bee
Tis that creats us true filicitie
Thô we despise, Contemn, and cast it by
As worthless, or Our fatalst Enemy
Because our Darling Lusts it dare Controule
And bound the Roveings of the wandering Soul.
Therefore in Garments poor it still appears
And sometimes (Naked) it no garment weares
Shun'd by the Great, and worthless deem'd by most
Urg'd to be gone, or wish'd forever Lost
Yet it is Loath to leave our wretched Coast
But in Disguise does here, and there intrude,
Striveing to Conquer base Ingrattitude
And boldly ventures now and then to Shine
So to make known it is of Birth Divine
But clouded oft it like the Lightning plays
Looseing as sone as seen its poynted Rays
Which scarceness makes those that are weak in witt
For vertues Self admire its Counterfiete
With Damned Hipocrites the world Delude
As men on Indians Glass, for Gems obtrude.