Classic Poem

ODE XXXV

1

Poor Clod of Earth, Despise
Thy Slime; and yet be wise.
Thou art unable, to attaine
IThat Pitch;
And knowing it, not to refraine
Were madnes; yet desist;
Though with a greedy fist,
IAnd Itch,
Thou covet it. Leave of to clime
That Hill, which will upbraid thy Time.

2

Though fired with glorie; all
Motives of Honour, call
Thee up to this sublime Endeavour;
IYet know,
The golden Anadem is never
Designed for thy head;
A Thousand, thousand, led
IAs thou
With selfe-surmises; yet appeare
Examples, others to deterre.

3

And though the Goale were won
Thou dost propose, undone
Were yet the greater worke; it is
IBeyond
Thy manage, were it taught; to this
My feeble Lampe, as much
Might fire Heavens greatest Brouch;
IAnd find
Perpetuall Fuell, to Adorne
Th' Horizon, better then the Morne.

4

Away! presumptuous wretch;
Tis set beyond thy reach;
With humble Admiration, fall
IAnd kisse
Thy mother Earth: farewell to all
Thy follies bid, and see
Its state, and thy degree;
ISoe misse
Thy certaine ruine. Soe the Sun
Wee see best, in reflection.

5

Invert thy Eyes; and see
Its State, and thy degree,
Where many formes appeare; and all
IThe hid
Causes in Nature, rise, or fall,
To what wee apprehend,
Which is not true; unbend
IThat thred
Of Fancie, knit before; and See,
Truth onlie meets Humilitie.