The secret wheels of hurrying Time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I seem to live.

And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.

And what's a life? the flourishing array
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-liv'd winter's day; hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies (which thy hands have made Fair copies of my life, and open laid

To view) how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
My non-aged day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit! how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while
The time away, or safely to beguile

My thoughts with joy; here's nothing worth a smile.

No, no; 'tis not to please my wanton ears
With frantic mirth; I beg but hours, not

years:

And what thou giv'st me, I will give to tears.

Draw not that soul which would be rather led!
That seed has yet not broke my serpent's head;
O, shall I die before my sins are dead ?

Behold these rags; am I a fitting guest

To taste the dainties of thy royal feast,

With hands and face unwashed, ungirt, unblest?

First, let the Jordan streams (that find supplies
From the deep fountain of thy heart) arise,
And cleanse my spots, and clear my lep'rous
eyes.

I have a world of sins to be lamented:

I have a sea of tears that must be vented:

spare till then; and then I die contented.

DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY.

I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth:
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse; she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compar'd with
thee?

Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ;
Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their

flesh,

And with their polyphonian notes delight me :

But what's the air or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea: she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store :
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:

But, Lord of oceans, when compar'd with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heav'n's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:
But, what is heav'n great God, compar'd to
thee?

Without thy presence heav'n's no heaven to me.

Without thy presence earth gives no refection; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence air's a rank infection; Without thy presence heav'n itself no pleasure: If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee,

What's earth, or sea, or air, or heav'n to me?

The highest honour, that the world can boast,
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms if compar'd to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:

Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness: Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compar'd with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ?
Not having thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor sea, nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heav'n, heav'n unpossess'd of thee.

BREVITY OF LIFE.

Behold

How short a span

Was long enough, of old,

To measure out the life of man! In those well-temper'd days his time was then Survey'd, cast up, and found but three-score years and ten.

Alas!

And what is that?

They come, and slide, and pass,
Before my pen can tell thee what.

The posts of time are swift, which having run Their sev'n short stages o'er, their short-liv'd task is done.

Our days
Begun we lend

To sleep, to antic plays

And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told,

we give

To unrecover'd loss-we rather breathe than live.

We spend

A ten years' breath,
Before we apprehend

What 'tis to live, or fear a death:

Our childish dreams are fill'd with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking, prove but toys.

How vain,

How wretched is

Poor man, that doth remain

A slave to such a state as this! His days are short, at longest: few, at most; They are but bad, at best; yet lavish'd out, or lost.

They be

The secret springs,

That make our minutes flee

On wheels more swift than eagles' wings: Our life's a clock, and every gasp of breath Breaths forth a warning grief, till time shall strike a death.

How soon

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!

And this, how soon to gray-hair'd night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast Ere we can count our days, our days they flee

so fast.