Classic Poem

Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below,
To whom a falling star and nine days' glory,
Or some frail beauty makes the bravest show,
Hark, and make use of this ensuing story.

When first my youthful, sinful age
Grew master of my ways,
Appointing Error for my Page,
And Darkness for my days;
I flung away, and with full cry
Of wild affections, rid
In post for pleasures, bent to try
All gamesters that would bid.
I play'd with fire, did counsel spurn,
Made life my common stake;
But never thought that fire would burn,
Or that a soul could ache.

Glorious deceptions, gilded mists,
False joys, fantastic flights,
Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists,
These were my prime delights.
I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring,
Cull'd flowers and made me posies;
Gave my fond humours their full wing,
And crown'd my head with roses.
But at the height of this career
I met with a dead man,
Who, noting well my vain abear,
Thus unto me began:
Desist, fond fool, be not undone;
What thou hast cut to-day
Will fade at night, and with this sun
Quite vanish and decay.

Flowers gather'd in this world, die here; if thou
Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow,
And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find
A garland, where comes neither rain, nor wind.