To the Reverend Mr. John Howe. THE Vanity of Human Cares. I. GREAT Man, permit the Muse to climb And seat her at thy Feet, Bid her attempt a Thought sublime, And consecrate her Wit. I feel, I feel th' attractive Force Of thy superiour Soul, My Chariot flies her upward Course, The Wheels Divinely roll. Now let me chide the mean Affairs And mighty Toyl of Men: How they grow grey in trifling Cares, Or wast the Motions of the Spheres Upon Delights as vain! II. A Puff of Honour fills the Mind, And Yellow Dust is solid Good; Thus like the Ass of Savage Kind We snuff the Breezes of the Wind, Or steal the Serpents Food. Could all the Choirs That charm the Poles But strike one doleful Sound, 'Twould be imploy'd to mourn our Souls, Souls that were fram'd of Sprightly Fires In Floods of Folly drown'd. Souls made of Glory seek a Brutal Joy, How they disclaim their Heavenly Birth, Melt their Bright Substance down with drossy Earth, And hate to be refin'd from that impure Alloy. III. Oft has thy Genius rouz'd us hence With Elevated Song, Bid us renounce this World of Sence, Bid us divide th' Immortal Prize With the Seraphick Throng: "Knowledge and Love make Spirits blest, " Knowledge their Food and Love their Rest; But Flesh, the unmanageable Beast, Resists the Pity of thine Eyes And Musick of thy Tongue. Then let the Worms of groveling Mind Round the short Joys of Earthy Kind In restless Windings Roam; HOWE hath an ample Orb of Soul, Where shining Worlds of Knowledge roll, Where Love the Center and the Pole Compleats the Heaven at Home.