 | Divine poems |  |
1
[Our Time's still Flying: and we all make hast]
Man that is born of a Woman, is of few dayes, and full of trouble,
Job 14. 1.
1
Our Time's still Flying: and we all make hastTo Live our last.
We Come into the World to See't; and then
Go out agen.
We are born Crying, and we spend our Breath
In Sighs till Death.
Our Life is but a Toyle: ere we can Trie
What course of Life is best, 'tis time to Die.
2
The Merchant wasts himself with fretting Cares,With Hopes and Feares:
And when his Baggs are fill'd, his Last Day comes;
He leaves his Summes.
2
Straight he is not.
By all the Care wherein his Life is spent,
Perhaps he gets a Costly Monument.
3
The Scholar bends his Curious Thoughts to findWhat is the Mind.
He studies to Know Good, but seldome Does
The Good he Knowes.
Some winding up their wit to an High Straine,
Have crackt their Braine.
He that's most Learned, onely comes to this,
To Know at last how Ignorant he is.
4
The Ranting Gallant weares out Time and Cloathes,To learn New Oathes:
He scorns to take Affron's, but thinks it Brave
To be Hell's Slave.
The Coontrey Farmer's thinking night and day
Of Corn and Hay.
But Hawkes and Houndes are for the better sort,
Who lose their Time in Seeking of their Sport.
5
In ev'ry Action, whatsoe're it is,Something's amiss.
3
Or can't get Heat.
Some Bitterness still interrupts our Joyes,
Or Too much Cloyes.
Our Choicest Comforts are inlay'd with Fears;
And all our Pleasures Sprinkled o're with Tears.
6
Amid'st this Trouble here's My Hope, that IShall shortly Die.
Our Time Ore-cast with Sorrow soon Decaies,
Like Winter-Dayes.
W'are Pilgrims here on Earth: This is our VVay,
No Place of Stay.
The VVay's unpleasant: Come, Death, be My Friend;
And bring Me quickly to My Journey's-End.
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