The Morall

The Bull, is Death; the World, the Well; the Tree,
our time of life; the white Mowse and the blacke,
The Day and night: the striuing Adders be
the Elements, that striue vs still to wracke:
The Diuell, the Dragon: and, the Honie is
our whitest Pleasures, that are lin'd with blacke;
And, blacke within, for losse of Glories Blisse:
Who, therefore, would not deeme that man were mad
That in such dreadfull dangers can be glad?

What comfort can we haue then, in a place
that's by the Prince of darknesse gouerned?
Where eu'ry thing is in a cursed case;
and, by Gods foes and good-mens, peopled:
Where Paines be rie, extreame, and infinite;
but Pleasures few, and false, fraile, dull, and dead,
Which, at the best, at least, doe vexe the sp'rit:
Where Plentie's full of perill; Want, of woes;
And (in a word) where all, that ill is, flowes.

Then, cast we off these pleasures, that but cast
a mist before our Eyes, and mocke our Sense:
But let vs hugge those paines, and hold them fast,
that bring eternall ioyes for recompence:
Now, if this Potion worke not in sicke-mindes,
at point of death is their Intelligence;
Nay, Death the pow'r of all their forces bindes:
In few: Great things by greatest mindes are sought:
The small but seeke for shades, the shels of Nought.