Sonnet

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold A kind of heaven in his authorities; The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold, Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise; The epicure that eats and drinks all day, Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs; And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day, Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts. But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power, No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss, Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour, And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss: No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be In my Love's service, but to live to thee.