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    My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
    By all those little Sands that thorough passe
    See how they presse, se how they strive, which shall
    With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall
    See how they raise a little Mount, and then
    With their owne weight doe levell it agen
    But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
    Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more
    Just such is man whose houres still forward run
    Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
    So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
    That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be
    Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly
    And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
    How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
    They creepe on towards us, but flie away
    How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
    But the least footing, there they will remaine
    How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
    Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
    How reall are our feares! they blast us still
    Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
    How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
    With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
    Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see
    Like Children crying for some Mercurie
    This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
    Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed
    This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
    Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state
    Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold'
    And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
    This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall
    Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
    This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
    With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought
    This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
    Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
    These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
    Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall
    Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
    By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave
    These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay
    A well plum'd Peacock is more gay than theY
    Poore man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour
    A ship of Glasse, toss'd in a Sea of terrour
    Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe
    Crauling in tears and mourning to the tombe
    How slippery are thy paths, hose sure thy fall
    How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!

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