Classic Poem

The world's a bubble, and the life of man
lesse then a span,
In his conception wretched, from the wombe,
so to the tombe:
Curst from the cradle, and brought up to yeares,
with cares and feares.
Who then to fraile mortality shall trust,
But limmes the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest:
what life is best?
Courts are but only superficiall scholes
to dandle fooles.
The rurall parts are turn'd into a den
of savage men.
And wher's a city from all vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domesticke cares afflict the husbands bed,
or paines his head.
Those that live single take it for a curse,
or doe things worse.
Some would have children, those that have them, mone,
or wish them gone.
What is it then to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our owne affections still at home to please,
is a disease,
To crosse the sea to any foreine soyle,
perills and toyle.
Warres with their noyse affright us: when they cease,
W'are worse in peace.
What then remaines? but that we still should cry,
Not to be borne, or being borne to dye.