Page 331
The wind passeth over it and it is gone. PSAL. 103.16.
NO sooner is this lighted Tapour set
Vpon the transitory Stage
Of eye-bedarkning night,
But it is straight subjected to the threat
Of envious windes, whose wast full rage
Disturbs her peace full light,
And makes her substance wast, and makes her flame lesse bright.
2
No sooner are we borne, no sooner come
To take possession of this vast,
This soule-afflicting earth;
But Danger meets us at the very wombe,
And Sorrow with her full mouth'd blast,
Salutes our painfull birth,
To put out all our Ioyes, and puffe out all our mirth.
3
Nor Infant Innocence, nor childish teares,
Nor youthfull wit, not manly power,
Nor politick old age,
Nor virgins pleading, nor the widows prayers,
Nor lowely Cell, nor lofty Tower,
Nor Prince, nor Peere, nor Page
Can scape this common blast, or curb her stormy rage.
4
Our life is but a pilgrimage of blasts;
And ev'ry blast brings forth a feare;
And ev'ry feare, a death;
The more it lengthens, ah, the more it wasts:
Were, were we to continue here
The dayes of long lif'd Seth,
Our sorrowes would renew, as we renew our breath: