17. Man.
1
Poor Man,
Why boasts he thus?
It is but for a spanne
That hee must tarry here with us.
Can he his dayes recall? or can he reine
Times nimble Steeds, and call them back againe
2
He bragges,
And takes delight
T'unfold the tattered flagges
Of his own vertues, in the sight
Of every eye: but there is no reflection
Of his owne eyes to his owne imperfection
3
Within,
A calm of rest.
Deceitful peace doth win
The flexile byas of his breast,
To dote on earth: but she disbands her power,
And loses all her glory in an houre.
4
A breath
Produces Joy,
Another, woes or death.
Thus he 'twixt hope and fear doth lie,
His sweets are mixt with sowers, and his glory's
As apt to varie as the Childe of Doris.
5
Hee's crost,
Disturb'd, and vext;
Hurried, enrag'd, and tost
By louzy Fortune, and perplext,
While he has life; and yet he loaths to heare
Deaths doleful Bell-man jangling at his eare:
6
By life,
(Which he adores,
Which to preserve there is such strife;
And for that end, in's flesh he stores
Deaths Antidotes) he is deceiv'd (alas)
It often proves the greatest foe hee has.
7
Hee's lost,
But tell me why:
'Tis thus, because he'l boast
Of Earth, and Earths felicity;
His judgement's blinded, and he thinks amiss,
Like prick-ear'd Midas. Hee is lost in this.
8
By death
Good souls of glory
Receive a joyful sheath;
Yet talk of death, he hates the story:
And what's the reason? why the reason's clear,
'Tis 'cause he dreams there is no heaven but here.
