(untitled)

LOok as the Flow'r which lingringly doth fade,
The Mornings Darling late, the Summers Queen,
Spoyl'd of that Juyce which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my Life being dead,
Or in their Contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spred,
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the Pilgrim, whom the Night
Hast darkly to imprison on his way,
Thinke on thy Home (my Soule) and thinke aright,
Of what's yet left thee of Lifes wasting Day;
Thy Sun posts Westward, passed is thy Morne,
And twice it is not given thee to be borne.