CXLVI

    Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth¹, Painting thy outward walls so costly² gay？ Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion³ spend？ Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge？ Is this thy body's end？ Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate⁴ thy store； Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross⁵； Within be fed, without be rich no more： So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.