The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Frailtie
¶ Frailtie.
LOrd, in my silence how do I despiseWhat upon trustIs styled honour, riches, or fair eyes;But is fair dust!I surname them guilded clay,Deare earth, fine grasse or hay;In all, I think my foot doth ever treadUpon their head.
But when I view abroad both Regiments;The worlds, and thine:Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events;The other fine,Full of glorie and gay weeds,Brave language, braver deeds:That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,And prick mine eyes.
O brook not this, lest if what even nowMy foot did tread,Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow;And long since wedMy poore soul, ev'n sick of love:It may a Babel proveCommodious to conquer heav'n and theePlanted in me.