Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.

Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.

As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.

This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.

Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.

Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit,