| MY Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse | |
| By all those little Sands that thorough passe. | |
| See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall | |
| With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall. | |
| See how they raise a little Mount, and then | 5 |
| With their owne weight doe levell it agen. | |
| But when th' have all got thorough, they give o're | |
| Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more. | |
| Just such is man whose houres still forward run, | |
| Being almost finisht ere they are begun; | 10 |
| So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we, | |
| That ere w'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 Joyes, how short their day! | 15 |
| They creepe on towards us, but flie away. | |
| How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine | |
| But the least footing, there they will remaine. | |
| How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive | |
| Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave! | 20 |
| How reall are our feares! they blast us still, | |
| Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill; | |
| How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great! | |
| With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat! | |
| Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see, | 25 |
| Like Children crying for some Mercurie. | |
| This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head | |
| Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed. | |
| This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what | |
| Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state. | 30 |
| Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold, | |
| And yet how many have been choak't with Gold? | |
| This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall | |
| Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall. | |
| This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought | 35 |
| With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought? | |
| This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay | |
| Most secret Ambuscado's in the way? | |
| These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall | |
| Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall. | 40 |
| Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have | |
| By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave. | |
| These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay, | |
| A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they. | |
| Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour, | 45 |
| A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour, | |
| Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe, | |
| Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe, | |
| How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall, | |
| How art thou Nothing when th' art most of all! | 50 |
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