The dayes of oure yeares are threescore yeares and ten.
PSALMS 90. 10.
1
So have I seene th'illustrious Prince of Light
Rising in glorie from his Crocean bed,
And trampling downe the horrid shades of night,
Advancing more and more his conq'ring head.
Pause first; decline; at length, begin to shroud
His fainting browes within a cole black cloud.
2
So have I seene a well built Castle stand
Upon the Tiptoes of a lofty Hill,
Whose active pow'r commands both Sea and Land,
And curbs the pride of the Beleag'rers will;
At length her ag'd Foundation failes her trust;
And layes her tottering ruines in the Dust.
3
So have I seene the blazing Tapour shoot
Her golden head into the feeble Ayre;
Whose shadow-gilding Ray, spred around about,
Makes the foule face of black-browd darknesse faire;
Till at length her wasting glory fades,
And leaves the night to her invet'rate shades.
4
Ev'n so this little world of living Clay,
The pride of Nature, glorified by Art,
Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obay,
Ally'd to Heav'n by his Diviner part,
Triumphs a while, then droops, and then decaies,
And worne by Age, Death cancells all his daies.
5
That glorious Sun, that whilom shone so bright,
Is now ev'n ravisht from our darkned eyes;
That sturdy Castle, man'd with so much might,
Lyes now a Monument of her owne disguize:
That blazing Tapour, that disdain'd the puffe
Of troubled Ayre, scarce ownes the name of Snuffe.
6
Poore bedrid Man! where is thy glory now,
Thy Youth so vaunted? Where that Majesty
Which sat enthron'd upon thy manly brow?
Where, where that braving Arme? that daring eye?
Those buxom tunes? Those Bacchanalian Tones?
Those swelling veynes? those marrow-flowing bones?
7
Thy drooping Glory's blurrd, and prostrate lyes
Grov'ling in dust; And frightfull Horror, now,
Sharpens the glaunces of thy gashfull eyes,
Whilst feare perplexes thy distracted brow:
Thy panting brest vents all her breath by groanes,
And Death enervs thy marrow-wasted bones.
8
Thus Man, that's borne of woman can remaine
But a short time; His dayes are full of sorrow;
His life's a penance, and his death's a paine,
Springs like a flow'r to day, and fades to morrow?
His breath's a bubble, and his daies a Span.
Tis glorious misery to be borne a Man.
CYPR.
When eyes are dimme, eares deafe, visage pale, teeth decaid, skin withered;
breath tainted, pipes furred, knees trembling, hands fumbling; feet fayling, the
sudden downefall of thy fleshly house is neare at hand.
St. AUGUST.
All vices wax old by Age: Covetousness alone, growes young.
