An invitation to happinesse

Me thinkes I see a glittering troope of Saints,
Beckning to me from Heavens gilt battlements,
To hasten to them. Here (they seeme to say)
Is the springs flourish, Summers lightsome ray;
The Autumnes plenty, with the Winters ease,
And all that may the high-wrought phansie please:
Who then pure treasures dost preferre to toyes,
Mend thy dull pace, and minde this place of joyes.