Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden
William Alexander, Earl of Stirling (1567?–1640)Third Chorus from The Tragedy of Darius
T
Huge alteration brings;
Those are but fools who trust
In transitory things,
Whose tails bear mortal stings,
Which in the end will wound;
And let none think it strange,
Though all things earthly change:
In this inferior round
What is from ruin free?
The elements which be
At variance, as we see,
Each th’ other doth confound:
The earth and air make war,
The fire and water are
Still wrestling at debate,
All those through cold and heat
Through drought and moisture jar.
What wonder though men change and fade
Who of those changing elements are made?
Of Fortune’s goods not lasting,
Evils which our wits enchant?
Expos’d to loss and wasting!
Lo, we to death are hasting,
Whilst we those things discuss.
All things from their beginning
Still to an end are running,
Heaven hath ordained it thus;
We hear how it doth thunder,
We see th’ earth burst asunder,
And yet we never ponder
What this imports to us:
These fearful signs do prove
That th’ angry powers above
Are mov’d to indignation
Against this wretched nation,
Which they no longer love:
What are we but a puff of breath
Who live assured of nothing but of death?
As never had some cross?
Though on a throne he sit,
And is not vexed with loss,
Yet fortune once will toss
Him, when that least he would;
If one had all at once
Hydaspes’ precious stones
And yellow Tagus’ gold;
The oriental treasure
And every earthly pleasure,
Even in the greatest measure
It should not make him bold:
For while he lives secure,
His state is most unsure;
When it doth least appear
Some heavy plague draws near,
Destruction to procure.
World’s glory is but like a flower,
Which both is bloom’d and blasted in an hour.
We find our comfort light,
The thing we soonest lose
That ’s precious in our sight;
In honour, riches, might,
Our lives in pawn we lay;
Yet all like flying shadows,
Or flowers enameling meadows,
Do vanish and decay.
Long time we toil to find
These idols of the mind,
Which had, we cannot bind
To bide with us one day.
Then why should we presume
On treasures that consume,
Difficult to obtain,
Difficult to retain,
A dream, a breath, a fume?
Which vex them most that them possess,
Who starve with store and famish with excess.