POORE silly soul, whose hope and head lies low; Whose flat delights on earth do creep and grow: To whom the starres shine not so faire as eyes; Nor solid work, as false embroyderies; Hark and beware, lest what you now do measure, And write for sweet, prove a most sowre displeasure. O heare betimes, lest thy relenting May come too late! To purchase heaven for repenting Is no hard rate. If souls be made of earthly mould, Let them love gold; If born on high, Let them unto their kindred flie: For they can never be at rest, Till they regain their ancient nest. Then, silly soul, take heed; for earthly joy Is but a bubble, and makes thee a boy. |