Poore silly soul, whose hope and head lies low;
Whose flat delights on earth do creep and grow:
To whom the starres shine not so fair, as eyes;
Nor solid work, as false embroyderies;
Hark and beware, lest what vow you now do measure,
And write for sweet, prove a most sowre displeasure.
O heare betimes, lest thy relenting
May come too late!
To purchase heaven for repenting
Is no hard rate.
If souls be made of earthly mould,
Let them love gold;
If born on high,
Let them unto their kindred flie:
For they can never be at rest,
Till they regain their ancient nest,
Then silly soul take heed; for earthly joy
Is but a bubble, and makes thee a boy.
