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XIII.

JOB X, 20.

Are not my days few? Cause then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little..

M

Y 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 decrepid 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.

And what's a life? A blast sustain'd with cloathing,
Maintain'd with food, retain'd with vile self-loathing,
Then weary of itself, a gain to nothing.

Read

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-ag'd 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 not yet 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 unwash'd, ungirt, unblest?

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

I have a world of sins to be lamented d;

I have a sea of tears that must be vented:
O spare till then; and then I die contented.

S. AU

S. AUGUST. Lib. de Civit. Dei, Cap. x. The time wherein we live, is taken from the space of our life; and what remaineth, is daily made less, insomuch that the time of our life is nothing but a passage to death.

S. GREG. Lib. ix. Cap. xliv. in Job.

As moderate afflictions bring tears, so immoderate take away tears; insomuch that that sorrow becometh no sorrow, which, swallowing up the mind of the afflicted, taketh away the sense of the affliction.

EPIG. 13.

Fear'st thou to go, when such an arm invites thee?
Dread'st thou loads of sin? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to fear, thy fear begins;

Fool, can he bear thee hence, and not thy sins?

DEUT.