Page:Essays - Abraham Cowley (1886).djvu/168

 Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
 * Thou who art underground to lie?

Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see;
 * For death, alas! is sowing thee.

Suppose, thou fortune couldst to tameness bring,
 * And clip or pinion her wing;

Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail
 * As not to cut off thy entail.

Yet death at all that subtlety will laugh,
 * Death will that foolish gardener mock

Who does a slight and annual plant engraff,
 * Upon a lasting stock.

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem;
 * A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;

Fond man! like a bought slave, thou, all the while
 * Dost but for others sweat and toil.