09/15/2010 § Leave a comment
My life is measured by this glass, this glass
By all those little Sands that thorough pass
See how they press, se how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their own weight do levell it agen
But when they have all got thorough, they give over
Their nimble sliding down, and move no more
Just such is man whose hours still forward run
Being almost finished ‘ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
That ere we are ought at all, we cease to be
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joys, how short their day!
They creep on towards us, but flie away
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain
But the least footing, there they will remain
How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and only sorrow leave!
How real are our fear! they blast us still
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see
Like Children crying for some Mercury
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares wait on a Marriage bed
This vowes Virginity, yet knows not what
Loneness, grief, discontent, attends that state
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold’
And yet how many have been choaked with Gold?
This only hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleepless night and racking thought
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscados in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck’t Rose or fading Lillie fall
Another boasts strong arms, alas Giants have
By silly Dwarfs been draged unto their grave
These ruffle in rich silk, though ne’re so gay
A well plumed Peacock is more gay than they
Poor man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour
A ship of Glass, tossed in a Sea of terrour
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the womb
Crawling in tears and mourning to the tomb
How slippery are thy paths, how sure thy fall
How art thou Nothing when thou art most of all!