False world, thou ly'st: Thou canst not lend
The least delight:
Thy favours cannot gain a Friend,
They are so slight;
Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:
Poore are the wants that thou supply'st:
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heav'n; Fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;
Thy bountie offers easie sales
Of lasting pleasure;
Thou ask'st the Conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;
There's none can want where thou supply'st:
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas, fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
What well-advised ear regards
What earth can say?
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay;
Thy cunning can but pack the cards;
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st;
Thou art not what thou seem'st: false world, thou ly'st.
Thy tinsel bosome seems a mint
Of new-coin'd treasure,
A Paradise, that has no stint,
No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:
Vain earth! that falsly thus comply'st
With man: Vain man! that thus rely'st
On earth: Vain man, thou dot'st: Vain earth, thou ly'st.
What mean dull souls, in this high measure
To haberdash
In earth's base wares; whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?
The height of whose inchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?
Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Us mortalls with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou ly'st.