All Flesh, is like the wither'd Hay,And, so it strings, and fades away.
ILLVXTR. XLVIII. Book. 4
THis Infant, and this little Trusse of Hay,
When they are moral zed, seeme to say,
That, Flesh is but a tust of Morning Grasse,
Both greene, and wither'd, ere the day-light passe.
And, such we truly finde it; for, behold,
As••oone as Man is borne, hee waxeth old,
In Griefes, in Sorrowes, or Necessities;
And, withers ev'ry houre, unti••l hee dyes:
Now, flourishing, as Grasse, when it is growne,
Straight perishing, as Grasse, when it is mowne.
If, wee with other things, mans Age compare,
His Life is but a Day (For, equall'd are
His Yeares with Houres: His Months, with Minutes bee
Fit parallels; and, ev'ry breathing, wee
May tearme a Day) yet, some, ev'n at the Night
Of that short Day, are dead, and witherd quite.
Before the Morning of our lives bee done,
The Flesh oft fades: Sometime, it growes till Noone:
But, there's no mortall Flesh, that will abide
Vnparched longer, than till Evening-tide.
For, in it selfe, it alwayes carries that,
Which helpeth so, it selfe to ••uinate;
That, though it feele, nor storme, not scorching flame,
An inbred Canker, will consume the same.
Considering well, and well remembring this,
Account the Flesh no better than it is:
Wrong not thine everlasting Soule, to cherish
A Gourd, which in a moments time will perish.
Give it the tendance, fit for fading Crops;
But, for Hay harvest, lose not better hopes.