Who worships Cupid doth adore a boy; Boys earnest are at first in their delight, But for a new soon leave their dearest toy, And out of mind, as soon as out of sight, Their joys be dallyings and their wealth is play, They cry to have, and cry to cast away. Mars is an idol, and man's lust, his sky, Whereby his glories still are full of wounds; Who worship him, their fame goes far and nigh, But still of ruin and distress it sounds. Yet cannot all be won, and who doth live Must room to neighbors and succession give. Those Mercurists that upon humors work, And so make others' skill and power their own, Are like the climates which far northward lurk, And through long winters must reap what is sown, Or like the masons whose art building well, Yet leaves the house for other men to dwell. Mercury, Cupid, Mars, they be no gods, But human idols built up by desire, Fruit of our boughs, whence heaven maketh rods, And babies too for child-thoughts that aspire; Who sees their glories on the earth must pry; Who seeks true glory must look to the sky. |