Stanzas Poem by Simion Grahame

Each hath his time whom Fortune will aduance,
Whose fickle wheel runs restless round about;
Some flattering lye oft changeth others' chance,
Dangers deceipt in guiltie harts breeds doubt.
It's seene
What yet hath beene,
With tract of time to passe
And change
Of fortune strange
At last hath turn'd their glasse.

Enuie triumphs on tops of high estate,
All ouer hung with veiles of feigned show;
Man climbes aboue the course of such conceates,
That loftie-like they loath to look below.
And what ?
All's hazard that
We seek on dice to set;
For some
To heights do come
That fall in danger's net.

The gallant man, if poore, hee's thought a wretch,
His virtue rare is held in high disdayne;
The greatest fool is wise if he be ritch,
And wisdome flowes from his lunatique brayne.
Thus see
Rare spirits to bee
Of no account at all;
Disgrace
Hath got such place,
Each joyes at other's fall.

The brib'rous minde who makes a god of gould,
He scornes to plead without he haue reward ;
Then poore men's suites at highest rates are sould,
Whilst Aurice damn'd, nor Truth have no regard :
For heere
He hath no feare
Of God's consuming curse :
His games
Doth pull with paines
Plagues from the poore man's purse.

The furious flames of Sodom's sodaine fire
With feruent force consume vaine pride to nought;
With wings of wax let soaring him aspire
Aboue the starres of his ambition's thought;
And so
When hee doth go
On top of pride's high glory,
Then shall
His sodain fall
Become the world's sad story.

Ingratitude, that ill-ill-fauored ill,
In noble breastes hath builded castles strong ;
Obliuion setts vp troph's that still
Bewrayes the filthy vildeness of that wrong :
Ah ! minde
Where deu'llish kinde
Ingratitude doth dwell;
That ill
Coequals still
The greatest ill in hell.

On poyson's filth contagious error spreads,
Heauen's spotless eyes look as amaz'd with wonder;
Their viprous mindes such raging horror breedes,
To teare religion's virgin roabes asunder.
What then ?
wicked men,
And hel's eternal, pray
Go mourne,
And in time turne
From your erronius way.

What course wants crosse ? What kind of state wants strife ?
What worldling yet would euer seem content ?
What haue we heere in this our thwarting life ?
Joy, beautie, honour, loue, like smoak are spent.
I say,
Time goes away,
Without returne againe
How wise
Who can despise
These worldly vapours vaine !