(untitled)

THis World a Hunting is,
The Prey poore Man, the Nimrod fierce is Death,
His speedy Grayhounds are,
Lust, Sicknesse, Envy, Care,
Strife that ne're falls amiss,
With all those ills which haunt us while we breath.
Now, if by chance we flie
Of these the eager chace,
Old Age with stealing pace
Casts on his Nets, and there we panting die.