AND FOR THE COLOURING OF ROD AND LINE 



Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin: 

 State, but a golden prison, to live in 

 And torture free-born minds : Embroider'd trains 

 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins : 

 And blood ally'd to greatness, is alone 

 Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own. 

 Fame, Honour, Beauty, State, Train, Blood, and Birth, 

 Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 



I would be Great, but that the Sun doth still 



Level his rays against the rising hill : 



I would be High, but see the proudest oak 



Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke: 



I would be Rich, but see men too unkind, 



Dig in the bowels of the richest mind : 



I would be Wise, but that I often see 



The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free : 



I would be Fair, but see the fair and proud, 



Like the bright Sun oft setting in a cloud: 



I would be Poor, but know the humble grass 



Still trampled on by each unworthy ass: 



Rich hated : Wise suspected : Scorn'd if poor : 



Great fear'd : Fair tempted : High, still envy'd more : 



I have wish'd all; but now I wish for neither; 



Great, High, Rich, Wise, nor Fair; Poor I'll be rather. 



Would the World now adopt me for her heir, 



Would Beauty's Queen entitle me the fair, 



Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie 



Angels with India, with a speaking eye 



Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb, 



As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 



To stones by epitaphs: be called great master 



In the loose rhymes of every poetaster : 



Could I be more than any man that lives, 

 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives: 

 Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, 

 Than ever Fortune would have made them mine; 

 And hold one minute of this holy leisure, 

 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 



Welcome, pure thoughts, Welcome ye silent groves, 

 These guests, these courts my soul most dearly loves: 

 Now the wing-'d people of the sky shall sing 

 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring: 

 A Pray'r-book now, shall be niy looking-glass, 

 In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face. 



165 



