In the Way of Shakespeare

What weakness is there,

Such of flesh and man,

Binding both mind and meat,

To drag senses mad.

To drive sad a heart,

And leave regret as repose.

Of truth, the world lays bare,

Many a perfect feast,

To serve in plenitude of needs.

So what is left to man but to feed.

At everything at hands as can reach.

And thus a weakness seats,

Born of opulence and saturation.

Binding extremes of want and need,

Leaving an endless creed,

Devouring a spirit in plea,

To be free of such greed.