Emblems With elegant figures newly published. By J. H. [i.e. John Hall] |
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| 7. | [My Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse] |
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 | Emblems With elegant figures |  |
105
[My Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse]
I said in the cutting off of my daies, I shall goe to the gates of the grave.
Isa. 38. 10.
My Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, wch shall
With greatest speed & greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their own weight doe levell it agen.
But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding down, and move no more.
Just such is man, whose houres stil forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun.
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly;
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creep on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain
But the least footing, there they will remain.
How groundles are our hopes! how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our fears! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill.
How senselesse are our wishes! yet how great!
With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a marriage-bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold:
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour: yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge: yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night & racking thought?
This needs will travell: yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes: 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silk: though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poor man, what art? a Tennis-ball of Errour;
A ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour:
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe.
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall?
How art thou nothing when th'art most of all?
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, wch shall
With greatest speed & greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their own weight doe levell it agen.
But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding down, and move no more.
Just such is man, whose houres stil forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun.
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly;
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creep on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain
But the least footing, there they will remain.
How groundles are our hopes! how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our fears! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill.
How senselesse are our wishes! yet how great!
With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
106
Knows not what cares waite on a marriage-bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold:
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour: yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge: yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night & racking thought?
This needs will travell: yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes: 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silk: though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poor man, what art? a Tennis-ball of Errour;
A ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour:
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe.
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall?
How art thou nothing when th'art most of all?
107
Epigram 7.
Thus the small sands within their Christal glide,And into moments times extent divide;
Till man himself into like dust returne.
The young mans hower-glasse is the old mans Urne.
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