THe life of Man is as a Spiders Webbe,* 1.1
Or like a Sea decaying in his Ebbe;
Or like unto a little Sparke of Fire,
Which in a minute doth it selfe expire.
Man is a temporary Loane of life,
A debt of Death, a Creature full of Strife;
An Inne, a Receptacle, soyled Cell,* 1.2
Wherein his Passions for a time doe dwell:
An abject, object of dire misery,
A very Habit of Infirmity:
A Subject whereon Griefe predominates,
An empty Caske which Sinne contaminates:
A tottering Reede which easily is broke,
A scatter'd Cloud, a transitory Smoke.
To day in health amongst his Bags of gold,
To morrow dead most ghastly to behold:
To day in's study casting up his Summes,
To morrow he is cast unto the wormes:
To day with his Associates making cheere,
To morrow borne by them upon a Beere:
To day in glory tended on in state,
To morrow left without associate: