Right Apprehension

Give but to things their true esteem,

And those which now so vile and worthless seem

Will so much fill and please the mind

That we shall there the only riches find.

How wise was I

In infancy!

I then saw in the clearest light;

But corrupt is a second night.

Custom, that must a trophy be

When wisdom shall complete her victory;

For trades, opinions, errors, are

False lights, but yet received to set off ware

More false; we're sold

For worthless gold.

Diana was a goddess made

That silversmiths might have the better trade.

But give to things their true esteem,

And then what's magnified most vile will seem;

What's commonly despised will be

The truest and the greatest rarity.

What men should prize

They all despise:

The best enjoyments are abused;

The only wealth by madmen is refused.

A globe of earth is better far

Than if it were a globe of gold; a star

More brighter than a precious stone;

The sun more glorious than a costly throne —

His warming beam,

A living stream

Of liquid pearl, that from a spring

Waters the earth, is a most precious thing.

What newness once suggested to,

Now clearer reason doth improve my view;

By novelty my soul was taught

At first, but now reality my thought

Inspires; and I

Perspicuously

Each way instructed am by sense,

Experience, reason, and intelligence.

A globe of gold must barren be,

Untilled and useless; we should neither see

Trees, flowers, grass, or corn

Such a metalline massy globe adorn;

As splendor blinds

So hardness binds,

No fruitfulness it can produce;

A golden world can't be of any use.

Ah me! this world is more divine;

The wisdom of a God in this doth shine.

What ails mankind to be so cross?

The useful earth they count vile dirt and dross,

And neither prize

Its equalities

Nor Donor's love.  I fain would know

How or why men God's goodness disallow.

The earth's rare ductile soil,

Which duly yields unto the plowman's toil

Its fertile nature, gives offense,

And its improvement by the influence

Of Heav'n; for these

Do not well please,

Because they do upbraid men's hardened hearts,

And each of them an evidence imparts.

He too well knows

That no fruit grows

In him, obdurate wretch, who yields

Obedience to Heav'n less than the fields.

But being, like his loved gold,

Stiff, barren, and impen'trable, though told

He should be otherwise, he is

Uncapable of any heavn'ly bliss.

His gold and he

Do well agree,

For he's a formal hypocrite,

Like that, unfruitful, yet on th' outside bright.

Ah, happy infant! wealthy heir!

How blessed did the heaven and earth appear

Before thou knew'st there was a thing

Called gold! barren of good, of ill the spring

Beyond compare!

Most quiet were

Those infant days when I did see

Wisdom and wealth couched in simplicity.