Nor gentle reader please, or teach, but vex. 
Books should to one of these four ends conduce—­
For wisdom, piety, delight, or use. 
What need we gaze upon the spangled sky? 
Or into matter’s hidden causes pry? 
To describe every city, stream, or hill
I’ th’world, our fancy with vain arts to fill? 
What is’t to hear a sophister, that pleads,
Who by the ears the deceived audience leads? 90
If we were wise, these things we should not mind,
But more delight in easy matters find. 
Learn to live well, that thou may’st die so too;
To live and die is all we have to do: 
The way (if no digression’s made) is even,
And free access, if we but ask, is given. 
Then seek to know those things which make us bless’d,
And having found them, lock them in thy breast;
Inquiring then the way, go on, nor slack,
But mend thy pace, nor think of going back. 100
Some their whole age in these inquiries waste,
And die like fools before one step they’ve pass’d;
’Tis strange to know the way, and not t’advance;
That knowledge is far worse than ignorance. 
The learned teach, but what they teach, not do,
And standing still themselves, make others go. 
In vain on study time away we throw,
When we forbear to act the things we know. 
The soldier that philosopher well blamed,
Who long and loudly in the schools declaim’d; 110
‘Tell’ (said the soldier) ’venerable Sir,
Why all these words, this clamour, and this stir? 
Why do disputes in wrangling spend the day,
Whilst one says only yea, and t’other nay?’
‘Oh,’ said the doctor, ’we for wisdom toil’d,
For which none toils too much.’  The soldier smiled;
’You’re gray and old, and to some pious use
This mass of treasure you should now reduce: 
But you your store have hoarded in some bank,
For which th’infernal spirits shall you thank.’ 120
Let what thou learnest be by practice shown;
’Tis said that wisdom’s children make her known. 
What’s good doth open to th’inquirer stand,
And itself offers to th’accepting hand;
All things by order and true measures done,
Wisdom will end, as well as she begun. 
Let early care thy main concerns secure,
Things of less moment may delays endure: 
Men do not for their servants first prepare,
And of their wives and children quit the care; 130
Yet when we’re sick, the doctor’s fetch’d in haste,
Leaving our great concernment to the last. 
When we are well, our hearts are only set
(Which way we care not) to be rich, or great;
What shall become of all that we have got? 
We only know that us it follows not;
And what a trifle is a moment’s breath,
Laid in the scale with everlasting death! 
What’s time when on eternity we think! 139
A thousand ages in that sea must sink.