Against inordinate loue of Creatures

Ah! who would loue a creature? who would place
His heart, his treasure in a thing so base?
Which time consuming, like a Moth destroyes,
And stealing death will rob him of his ioyes.
Why life we not our minds aboue this dust?
Haue we not yet perceiu'd that God is iust,
And hath ordain'd the obiects of our loue
To be our scourges, when we wanton proue?
Go, carelesse man, in vaine delights proceed,
Thy fansies, and thine outward senses feede,
And bind thy selfe, thy fellow-seruants thrall:
Loue one too much, thou art a slaue to all.
Consider when thou follow'st seeming good,
And drown'st thy selfe too deepe in flein and blood,
Thou making sute to dwell with woes and feares,
Art sworne their souldier in the vale of teares:
The bread of sorrow shall be thy repast,
Expect not Eden in a thorny waste,
Where grow no faire trees, no smooth riuers swell,
Here onely losses and afflictions dwell.
These thou bewayl'st with a repining voyce,
Yet knew'st before that mortall was thy choyse.
Admirers of false pleasures must sustaine
The waight and sharpenesse of insuing paine.