 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
The Houre-glasse.
Doe but consider this small dust,Here running in the Glasse,
By Atomes mov'd;
Could you beleeve, that this,
The body was
Of one that lov'd?
And in his Mrs flame, playing like a flye,
Turn'd to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death, as life unblest,
To have't exprest,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |