| |
|
CXLVI.
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[ ] these
rebel powers that thee array;
Why dost thou pine
within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls
so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a
lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy
charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou
upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to
aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling
hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no
more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
|
|
|
