If Thou Be Rich, Strive To Command

Death's A Fable. Did Not Heaven Inspire Your Equal Elements With Living Fire Blown From The Spring Of Life? Is Not That Breath Immortal? Come; Ye Are As Free From Death As He That Made Ye: Can The Flames Expire Which He Kindled?

If Opinion Hath Lighted The Lamp Of Thy Name, Endeavor To Encourage It With Thy Own Oil, Lest It Go Out And Stink; The Chronical Disease Of Popularity Is Shame; If Thou Be Once Up, Beware; From Fame To Infamy Is A Beaten Road.

When Two Agree In Their Desire, One Sparke Will Set Them Both On Fire.

Tis Not, To Cry God Mercy, Or To Sit And Droop, Or To Confess That Thou Hast Fail'd: 'tis To Bewail The Sins Thou Didst Commit: And Not Commit Those Sins Thou Hast Bewail' D. He That Bewails And Not Forsakes Them Too; Confesses Rather What He Means To Do.

Yet, Sluggard, Wake, And Gull Thy Soul No More With Earth's False Pleasures, And The World's Delight, Whose Fruit Is Fair And Pleasing To The Sight, But Sour In Taste, False As The Putrid Core: Thy Flaring Glass Is Gems At Her Half Light; She Makes Thee Seeming Rich, But Truly Poor: She Boasts A Kernel, And Bestows A Shell; Performs An Inch Of Her Fair-promis'd Ell: Her Words Protest A Heav'n; Her Works Produce A Hell.