96
Tixall Poetry.
And is not thers, like his vane exersise,
Who lost his mispent time in killing flies?
Since the pursute of beuty nothing gains,
When the reward is never worth the paines.
Tis only they with iustice may pretend
A lasting ioy, whose love can know noe end.
These are the wise admirers of the soule,
And these Fame only Lovers does inrole:
Nor heat nor cold they feele, noe change of state,
Who all their thoughts to this doe consecrate.
For as that is for ever, so ther flame,
The obiect one, the passion is the same.
Then choose, fraile mortals, which you'd rather be
Joy'd for a while, or pleas'd eternally.
Who lost his mispent time in killing flies?
Since the pursute of beuty nothing gains,
When the reward is never worth the paines.
Tis only they with iustice may pretend
A lasting ioy, whose love can know noe end.
These are the wise admirers of the soule,
And these Fame only Lovers does inrole:
Nor heat nor cold they feele, noe change of state,
Who all their thoughts to this doe consecrate.
For as that is for ever, so ther flame,
The obiect one, the passion is the same.
Then choose, fraile mortals, which you'd rather be
Joy'd for a while, or pleas'd eternally.
