Classic Poem

Goe sordid earth, and hope not to bewitch
My high-borne soule, that flies a nobler pitch!
Thou can'st not tempt her with adulterate show,
She beares no appetite that flaggs so low.
Should both the Indies spread their lapps to me,
And court my eyes to wish their Treasurie,
My better will they neither could entice;
Nor this with gold, nor that with all her spice.
For what poore things had these possessions showne,
When all were mine, but I were not mine owne!
Others in pompous wealth their thoughts may please,
And I am rich in wishing none of these.
For say; which happinesse would you beg first,
Still to have drink, or never to have thirst?
No servants on my beck attendant stand,
Yet are my passions all at my command;
Reason within me shall sole ruler be,
And every sense shall weare her livery.
Lord of my selfe in cheife; when they that have
More wealth, make that their Lord, which is my slave.
Yet I as well as they, with more content
Have in my selfe a Houshold government.
My intellectuall soule hath there possest
The Stewards place, to governe all the rest.
When I goe forth my Eyes two Ushers are,
And dutifully walke before me bare.
My Leggs run Footmen by me. Goe or stand
My ready Armes waite close on either hand.
My Lipps are Porters to the dangerous dore:
And either Eare a trusty Auditor:
And when abroad I goe, Fancy shall be
My skilfull Coachman, and shall hurry me
Through Heaven & Earth, and Neptune's watry plaine,
And in a moment drive me back againe.
The charge of all my Cellar, Thirst, is thine;
Thou Butler art and Yeoman of my wine.
Stomacke the Cooke, whose dishes best delight,
Because their only sawce is Appetite .
My other Cooke digestion ; where to me
Teeth carve, and Palat will the taster be.
And the two Eylids, when I goe to sleepe,
Like carefull groomes my silent chamber keepe.
Where least a cold oppresse my vitall part,
A gentle fire is kindled by the Heart.
And least too great a heat procure my paine,
The Lungs fanne winde to coole those parts againe.
Within the inner closet of my braine
Attend the nobler members of my traine.
Invention Master of my Mint growes there,
And Memory my faithfull Treasurer.
And though in others 'tis a treacherous part,
My Toungue is Secretary to my heart.
And then the pages of my soule and sense,
Love, Anger, Pleasure, Griefe, Concupiscence,
And all affections else are taught t'obey
Like subjects, not like favourites to sway.
This is my Mannor-house, and men shall see
I here live Maister of my family.
Say then thou man of worth; in what degree
May thy proud fortunes over-ballance me?
Thy many barks plough the rough Oceans backe;
And I am never frighted with a wracke.
Thy flocks of sheepe are numberlesse to tell;
And with one fleece I can be cloth'd as well.
Thou hast a thousand severall farmes to let;
And I doe feede on ne're a Tenants sweat.
Thou hast the Commons to Inclosure brought;
And I have fixt a bound to my vast thought.
Variety is sought for to delight
Thy witty and ambitious Appetite;
Three Elements, at least, dispeopled be,
To satisfie judicious gluttony;
And yet for this I love my Commons here,
Above the choicest of thy dainty cheere.
Noe widdowes curse caters a dish of mine,
I drinke no teares of Orphans in my wine.
Thou maist perchance to some great office come
And I can rule a Common wealth at home.
And that preheminence injoy more free,
Then thou puft up with vaine Authority.
What boots it him a large command to have,
Whose every part is some poore vices slave!
Which over him as proudly Lords it there,
As o're the rusticke he can domineere.
Whilst he poore swaines doth threat, in his own eyes
Lust and Concupiscence doe Tyrannize.
Ambition wrackes his heart with jealous feare,
And bastard flattery captivates his eare.
He on posterity may fixe his care,
And I can study on the times that were.
He stands upon a pinacle to show
His dangerous height, whilst I sit safe below.
Thy father hords up gold for thee to spend,
When death will play the office of a friend,
And take him hence, which yet he thinkes too late:
My nothing to inherit is a fate
Above thy birth-right, should it double be;
No longing expectation tortures me.
I can my fathers reverend head survay,
And yet not wish that every haire were gray.
My constant Genius sayes I happier stand,
And richer in his life, then in his land.
And when thou hast an heyre, that for thy gold
Will thinke each day makes thee an yeare too old;
And ever gaping to possesse thy store,
Conceives thy age to be above fourescore
'Cause his is one and twenty, and will pray
The too slow houres to hast, and every day
Bespeake thy Coffin, cursing every bell,
That he heares tole, 'cause 'tis anothers knell;
(And justly at thy life he may repine,
For his is but a wardship during thine.)
Mine shall have no such thoughts, if I have one
He shall be more a pupill then a sonne:
And at my grave weepe truth, and say deaths hand,
That bountifully unto thine gave land,
But rob'd him of a Tutor; Cursed store!
There is no piety but amongst the poore.
Goe then confesse which of us fathers be
The happier made in our posterity:
I in my Orphane that hath nought beside
His vertue, thou in thy rich parricide.
Thou severall Artists doest imploy to show
The measure of thy lands; that thou maist know
How much of earth thou hast: while I doe call
My thoughts to scan how little 'tis in all.
Thou hast thy hounds to hunt the timorous hare,
The crafty fox, or the more noble deere;
Till at a fault perchance thy Lordship be,
And some poore citty varlet hunt for thee.
For 'tis not poore Actaeons fault alone;
Hounds have devour'd more Masters sure then one.
Whilst I the while pursueing my content,
With the quicke Nostrils of a judgement, sent
The hidden steps of nature, and there see
Your game maintain'd by her Antipathye.
Thou hast a Hawke, and to that height doth flye
Thy understanding, if it soare so high:
While I my soule with Eagles Pinions wing,
To stoope at Heaven, and in her Talons bring
A glorious constellation, sporting there
With him whose belt of starres adornes the spheare.
Thou hast thy landskips, and the painters try
With all their skill to please thy wanton eye.
Here shadowy groves, and craggy mountaines there;
Here Rivers headlong fall, there springs runne cleare;
The Heavens bright Raies through clouds must azure show,
Circled about with Iris gawdy bow.
And what of this? I reall Heavens doe see,
True springs, true groves; whilst yours but shadows be.
Nor of your household stuffe so proudly boast,
Compos'd of curiosity and cost.
Your two best chambers are unfurnished,
Th' inner and upper roome, the heart and head.
But you will say the comfort of a life
Is in the partner of our joyes, a wife.
You may have choice of brides, you need not wooe
The rich, the faire; they both are proferd you:
But what fond virgin will my love preferre,
That only in Parnassus joynture her!
Yet thy base match I scorne, an honest pride
I harbour here that scornes a market bride.
Neglected beauty now is priz'd by gold,
And sacred love is basely bought and sold.
Wives are growne traffique, marriage is a trade.
And when a nuptiall of two hearts is made,
There must of moneyes too a wedding be,
That coine as well as men may multiplye.
O humane blindnesse! had we eyes to see,
There is no wealth to valiant poetry!
And yet what want I Heaven or Earth can yeeld?
Me thinkes I now possess the Elisian field.
Into my chest the yellow Tagus flowes,
While my plate fleete in bright Pactolus rowes.
Th' Hesperian Orchard's mine; mine, mine is all:
Thus am I rich in wealth poiticall.
Why strive you then my friends to circumvent
My soule, and rob me of my blest content?
Why out of ignorant love counsell you me
To leave the Muses and my poitry?
Which should I leave and never follow more,
I might perchance get riches and be poore.