Comus

Not on beds of fading flow'rs,
Shedding soon their gaudy pride,
Nor with swains in Syren Bow'rs
Will true Pleasure long reside.
On awful Virtue's Hill sublime Enthroned
Sits th'immortal fair;
Who wins her Height must patient climb,
The steps are Peril, Toil and Care.
So from the first did Jove ordain
Eternal bliss for transient Pain.

Fame's an Echo, Prattling double,
An empty airy glitt'ring Bubble.
A breath can swell, a breath can sink it,
The wise not worth their keeping think it.
Why, then, why such toil and pain,
Fame's uncertain smiles to gain?
Like her sister Fortune blind,
To the best she's oft unkind,
And the worst her favour find.