Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion 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 aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
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.
In plain English
You're wasting yourself on your body—spending extravagantly on its appearance while your soul starves inside. Why pour so much money into decorating a house you'll abandon? Your flesh will rot regardless of how much gold you throw at it.
Stop feeding your body's appetites. Let it go hungry instead, and use that restraint to feed your soul. Trade the pointless hours of physical pleasure for something that lasts—something divine. Be poor on the outside, rich on the inside.
If you stop serving Death through the body's endless wants, you'll finally escape Death's grip. You'll have conquered the thing that kills us all—and then you'll be free from dying altogether.
