Monday, June 11, 2012

THE HOURGLASS(1572-1637)

                                      Consider this small dust here running in the glass,
                                                            By atoms moved;
                                            Could you believe that this the body was
                                                            Of one that loved?
                                        And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
                                                    Turned to cinders by her eye:
                                             Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
                                                          To have it expressed,
                                                      Even ashes of loves no rest.

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