A Collection of Emblemes Ancient and Moderne: Quickened VVith Metricall Illvstrations, both Morall and Divine: And disposed into Lotteries, That Instruction, and Good Counsell, may bee furthered by an Honest and Pleasant Recreation. By George Wither |
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Illvstr. L
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 | A Collection of Emblemes |  |
184
Illvstr. L
[There is no Day, nor minute of the Day]
This Day, my Houre-glasse, forth is runne;
Thy Torch, to Morrow, may bee done.
Thy Torch, to Morrow, may bee done.
There is no Day, nor minute of the Day
In which, there are not many sent away
From Life to Death; or, many drawing on,
Which, must within a little while bee gone.
You, often, view the Grave; you, often, meet
The Buriers, and the Mourners, in the street,
Conveying of some Neighbour, to that home,
Which must, e're long, your dwelling-place become.
You see the Race, of many a youthfull Sonne
Is finish'd, e're his Father's Course is done;
And, that, the hand of Death, regardeth neither
Sexe, Youth, nor Age; but, mingleth all together.
You, many times, in your owne houses, heare
The groanes of Death, and view your Children there,
Your lov'ng Parents, or, beloved Wives.
To gaspe for breath, and, labour for their lives.
In which, there are not many sent away
From Life to Death; or, many drawing on,
Which, must within a little while bee gone.
You, often, view the Grave; you, often, meet
The Buriers, and the Mourners, in the street,
Conveying of some Neighbour, to that home,
Which must, e're long, your dwelling-place become.
You see the Race, of many a youthfull Sonne
Is finish'd, e're his Father's Course is done;
And, that, the hand of Death, regardeth neither
Sexe, Youth, nor Age; but, mingleth all together.
You, many times, in your owne houses, heare
The groanes of Death, and view your Children there,
Your lov'ng Parents, or, beloved Wives.
To gaspe for breath, and, labour for their lives.
Nay, you your selves, do sometime find the paines
Of Sicknesse, in your Bowels, and your Vaines,
The Harbingers of Death, sometime, begin
To take up your whole Bodie, for their Inne.
You beare their heavie Aches, on your back;
You feele their twinges, make your heartstrings crack;
And, sometime, lye imprison'd, and halfe dead,
With Age, or with Diseases, on your bed:
Yet you deferre your ends; and, still contrive,
For temp'rall things; as if you thought to live
Sixe Ages longer: or had quite forgot,
That, you, and others, draw one common-Lot.
But, that, you might not still, the same forget,
This Emblem, and this Motto, here were set.
Of Sicknesse, in your Bowels, and your Vaines,
The Harbingers of Death, sometime, begin
To take up your whole Bodie, for their Inne.
You beare their heavie Aches, on your back;
You feele their twinges, make your heartstrings crack;
And, sometime, lye imprison'd, and halfe dead,
With Age, or with Diseases, on your bed:
Yet you deferre your ends; and, still contrive,
For temp'rall things; as if you thought to live
Sixe Ages longer: or had quite forgot,
That, you, and others, draw one common-Lot.
But, that, you might not still, the same forget,
This Emblem, and this Motto, here were set.
| A Collection of Emblemes | |