At other times he complains of the shortness of life, and in strains
equally pathetic.
My glass is half unspent; forbear t’arrest
My thriftless day too soon: my poor request
Is that my glass may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minutes will be done
Without thy help; see—see how swift they run:
Cut not my thread before my thread be spun.
The gain’s not great I purchase by this stay;
What loss sustain’st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged hours; they fly so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
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 falsely 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!
* * * * *