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

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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.

V.

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.