Men are not wise in their Tru Interest,

Nor in the Worth of what they long possest:

They know no more what is their Own

Than they the Valu of 't have known.

They pine in Misery,

Complain of Poverty,

Reap not where they hav sown,

Griev for Felicity,

Blaspheme the Deity;

And all becaus they are not blest

With Eys to see the Worth of Things:

For did they know their Reall Interest,

No doubt they'd all be Kings.

There's not a Man but covets and desires

A Kingdom, yea a World; nay, he aspires

To all the Regions he can spy

Beyond the Hev'ns Infinity:

The World too little is

To be his Sphere of Bliss;

Eternity must be

The Object of his View

And his Possession too;

Or els Infinity's a Dream

That quickly fades away; He lovs

All Treasures; but he hates a failing Stream

That dries up as it movs.

Can Fancy make a Greater King than God?

Can Man within his Soveraign's Abode

Be dearer to himself than He

That is the Angels Deity?

Man is as wel belov'd

As they, if he improv'd

His Talent as we see

They do; and may as well

In Blessedness excell.

But Man hath lost the ancient Way,

That Road is grown into Decay;

Brambles shut up the Path, and Briars tear

Those few that pass by there.

They think no Realms nor Kingdoms theirs,

No Lands nor Houses, that have other Heirs.

But native Sense taught me more Wit,

The World did too, I may admit:

As soon as I was born

It did my Soul adorn,

And was a Benefit

That round about me lay;

And yet without Delay

'Twas seated quickly in my Mind,

Its Uses also I yet find

Mine own: for God, that All things would impart,

Center'd it in my Heart.