And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give To unrecover'd loss-we rather breathe than live. We spend A ten years' breath, What 'tis to live, or fear a death : Our childish dreams are fill'd with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking, prove but toys. How vain, How wretched is Poor man, that doth remain A slave to such a state as this! His days are short, at longest: few, at most; They are but bad, at best; yet lavish'd out, or lost. They be The secret springs, That make our minutes flee On wheels more swift than eagles' wings: Our life's a clock, and every gasp of breath Breaths forth a warning grief, till time shall strike a death. How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon! And this, how soon to gray-hair'd night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast. That we begin to live, our life is done : Man, count thy days; and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last. DECAY OF LIFE. THE day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath made No less than treble shade, And the descending damp doth now prepare Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The spirits of all flesh; The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, To taste the slipp'ry streams: The droyling swineherd knocks away, and feasts The boxbill ouzle, and the dappled thrush And now the cold autumnal dews are seen To cobweb every green; And by the low-shorn rowins doth appear The sapless branches doff their summer suits And stormy blasts have forc'd the quaking trees To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze. Our wasted taper now hath brought her light Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn Sad as her neighb'ring urn: Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains, And in a silent language bids her guest Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful plough And snowy blasts of discontented care Have blanch'd the falling hair : Suspicious envy mix'd with jealous spite He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! was. Gray hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last: Those hasty wings that hurried them away Will give these days no day: The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire Until her works expire: That blast that nipp'd thy youth, will ruin thee; That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike the tree. EARTH AND HEAVEN. IN hell no life, in heaven no death there is; Ten thousand deaths let me endure rather My life's with thee, for, Lord, thou art in heaven 0 VAIN BOASTING. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast? So fair, strong, wise-so rich, so young is man. So strong is man, that with a gasping breath long? Thou art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. TRIAL BEFORE REWARD. WHAT joyful harvester did e'er obtain And like hard masters, give more hard directions, Make sharp afflictions seem not as they are, |