 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 18.
So, the quick-sented Beagles, in a view,
O're hill, and dale, the fleeing Chase pursue,
As swift-foot Death, and Ruine follow me,
That flees, afraid, yet knowes not where to flee:
Flee to the fields? There, with the sword I meet;
And, like a Watch, Death stands in every street;
No covert hides from death; no Shade, no Cells
So darke, wherein not Death and Horror dwells:
Our dayes are numbred, and our number's done,
The empty Houre-glasse of our glorie's run:
Our sins are summ'd, and so extreame's the score,
That heauen could not doe lesse, nor hell do more.
| Divine poems
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