On Man's Frailty

Frail Man, whose highest Comfort is
To create hopes and dream of Bliss;
Born still to learn, by learning find
The more we see, the more we're blind.
Desire does all our Joys imply,
Fruitions cloy, not satisfie.

Our wished ends attain'd, we still create
New thoughts, which new desires do animate;
From age to age repining at our lot:
We still desire to have, what we have not.
Our active souls no contentation have;
No fix'd delight between the womb and grave.

Yet though our God have thought it good,
Thus to endow our flesh and blood
With frail desires to earthly things,
Which nought but pain and sorrow brings,
He hath our souls created free,
T'enjoy much more felicity.
When our hearts flame with his celestial fire,
He will the object be of our desire:
There may our fancies work, and never cease;
And then will our desires, our joys encrease.
Such raptures never cloy, nor fail to bless
Such fouls with everlasting happiness.

The world, if we consider right,
Doth dazle rather than delight,
With wealth and honours, that decay,
With strength and power that pass away:
Vain objects, full of hopes and fears,
Freight with few joys and frequent tears.
Where pride, or lust, or gluttony excell,
We see short hours of true contentment dwell.
Though our Creator hath the Creatures made,
For men, he has ordain'd them all to fade,
That nothing here might fix our wandring Sense,
But his divine and heavenly influence.