By that wrong measure of confusion
The vulgar foot: that never takes his ways
By reason, but by imitation;
Rolling on with the rest, and never weighs
The course which he should go, but what is gone.
Well were it with mankind, if what the most
Did like were best, but ignorance will live
By others square, as by example lost;
And man to man must the hand of error give
That none can fall alone at their own cost,
And all because men judge not, but believe.
For what poor bounds have they whom but the earth bounds,
What is their end whereto their care attains,
When the thing got relieves not, but confounds
Having but travail to succeed their pains?
What joy hath he of living that propounds
Affliction but his end, and grief his gains?
Gathering, encroching, wresting, joining to,
Destroying, building, decking, furnishing,
Repairing, altering, and so much ado
To his soul’s toil, and bodies travailing:
And all this doth he little knowing who
Fortune ordains to have the inheriting.
And his fair house raised high in envy’s eye,
Whose pillars reared perhaps on blood & wrong