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