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| MY life is measur’d by this glass, this glass | |
| By all those little sands that thorough pass. | |
| See how they press, see how they strive, which shall | |
| With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall. | |
| See how they raise a little mount, and then | 5 |
| With their own weight do level it again. | |
| But when th’ have all got thorough, they give o’er | |
| Their nimble sliding down, and move no more. | |
| Just such is man, whose hours still forward run, | |
| Being almost finish’d ere they are begun; | 10 |
| So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we, | |
| That ere we’re aught 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! | 15 |
| They creep on towards us, but fly 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! | 20 |
| How real are our fears! 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, | 25 |
| Like children crying for some Mercury. | |
| This gapes for marriage, yet his fickle head | |
| Knows not what cares wait on a marriage bed: | |
| This vows virginity, yet knows not what | |
| Loneness, grief, discontent, attends that state. | 30 |
| Desires of wealth another’s wishes hold, | |
| And yet how many have been chok’d 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? | 35 |
| With many a sleepless night, and racking thought. | |
| This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay | |
| Most secret ambuscados in the way? | |
| These triumph in their beauty, though it shall | |
| Like a pluck’d rose or fading lily fall. | 40 |
| Another boasts strong arms: ’las! giants have | |
| By silly dwarfs been dragg’d unto their grave. | |
| These ruffle in rich silk: though ne’er so gay, | |
| A well-plum’d peacock is more gay than they. | |
| Poor man! what art? A tennis-ball of error, | 45 |
| A ship of glass toss’d in a sea of terror; | |
| 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 th’ art most all! | 50 |
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