Jacobs ladder, or, The devout souls ascention to Heaven, in prayers, thanksgivings, and praises in four parts ... : with graces and thanksgivings : illustrated with sculptures / by Jo. Hall.

The Vanity of mans Life.

WHat are poor men, but quickned lumps of earth, A feast for worms, a bubble full of breath, A looking-glass for grief, a flash, a minute, A painted tomb with putrefaction in it. A map of death, a burthen of a Song, A winters dust, a worm of five foot long, Begot in sin, in darkness nourisht, born In sorrow, naked, shiftless, and forlorn; His first voice (heard) is crying for relief, Alas he comes into a world of grief. His first age is sinful, & his youth is vain, His life's a punishment, his death's a pain. His life's an hour of joy, a world of sorrow, His death's a winters night that finds no morrow.

Mans life's an hour-glass, which being run Concludes that hour of joy, and so is done.

2.

How poor a thing is man? how vains his mind? How strange, how base, and wavering like the wind? How uncouth are his ways, how full of danger? How to himself is he himself a stranger? His hearts corrupt, and all his thoughts are vain; His actions sinful & his words prophane; His wills deprav'd, his senses are beguiled, His reasons dark, his members are defiled, His hasty feet are swift, and prone to ill, His guilty hands are ever bent to kill. His tongues a spunge of venom; or of worse His practice is to swear, his skill to curse. His eyes are fire-balls of lustful fire, And outward helps to inward foul desire, His body is a well-erected station, But full of folly, & corrupted passion.

3.

How slight a thing is man, how frail & bri••le How seeming great is he, how truly little. Within the bosom of his holiest works, Some hidden embers of old Adam lurks. Which oftentimes in men of purest ways Burst out in flame, and for a season blaze. Lord teach our hearts, and give our souls directions,

Subdue our passions, curb our stout affe∣ctions. And in thy mercy grant this boon to me, That I may die to sin, and live to thee.

4.

Our life on earth is a like a thred of flax, That all may touch; and being toucht, it cracks. Death is a Kalender compos'd by fate, Concerning all men, never out of date: His days Dominical are writ in blood; She shews more bad days, then she sheweth good She tells when days, and months, and terms expire, Mesuring the lives of mortals by her squire Death is a Pursuvant with Eagles wings, That knocks at poor mens doors, and gates of Kings. Worldling beware betimes, death sculks behind thee, And as she leaves thee, so will Judgment find thee.