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A Good that never satisfies the Mind,
A Beauty fading like the Aprill flow'rs,
A Sweet with flouds of Gall that runs combin'd,
A Pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A Honour that more fickle is than wind,
A Glory at Opinions frown that low'rs,
A Treasury which bankrupt Time devoures,
A Knowledge than grave Ignorance more blind:
A vaine Delight our equalls to command,
A Stile of greatnesse, in effect a Dreame,
A swelling Thought of holding Sea and Land,
A servile Lot, deckt with a pompous Name:
Are the strange Ends we toyle for here below,
Till wisest Death make us our errours know,