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Hourglass
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1
My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glass
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By all those little Sands that thorough passe
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See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
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With greatest speed speed and greatest quicknesse fall
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See how they raise a little Mount, and then
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With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
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But then th'have all got thorough, they give o're
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Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
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Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
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Being almost finsht ere they are begun,
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So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
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That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
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Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
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And while we sleep what do we else but die?
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How transient are our Joyes, how short their days!
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They creepe on towards us, but flie away
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How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
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But the least footing there they will remaine
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How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
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Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
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How real are our feares! they blast us still,
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Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
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How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
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With that toile we pursue them with that sweat!
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Yet most times for our hurts so small we see,
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Like Children crying for some mercurie,
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This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
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Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
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This woves Virginity, yet knows not what
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Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
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Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold
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And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
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This onely hunts for honour yet whop shall
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Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
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This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
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With many a sleeplesse night and racking though?
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This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
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Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
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These triumph in their Beaty, though it shall
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Like a pluck't Rose or fading Little fall.
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Another hoasts strong armes, las Giants have
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by silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
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These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay.
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A well plum'd Peacock is more gay thatn they.
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Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour,
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A ship of Glasse, toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
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Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
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Crauling in tears and mounting to the tombe,
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How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
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How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!
Current 93 - Tamlin
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