Poems, elegies, paradoxes, and sonets

The Dirge.

VVHat is th'Existence of Mans life? But open war, or slumber'd strife. Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the Elements: And never feels a perfect Peace Till deaths cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm where the hot blood Out-vies in rage the boyling flood; And each loud Passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats his Bark with many a Wave Till he casts Anchor in the Grave.

It is a flower which buds and growes, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mold Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moraliz'd in age and youth: Where all the comforts he can share As wandring as his fa••cies a••e; Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanis•• qui••e away.

It is a Diall, which points out The Sun-set a•• it moves about: And shadowes out in lines of night The subtile stages of times flight, Till all obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary enterlude Which doth short joyes, long woes include. The World the Stage, the Prologue tears, The Acts vain hope, and vary'd fears: The Scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Epilogue but Death.