MAD

THis Life, which seems so faire.
Is like a Bubble blown up in the Aire,
By sporting childrens Breath,
Who chase it every where,
And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
And though it sometime seem of its own might
Like to an Eye of gold to be fix'd there,
And firme to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so Light.
But in that Pompe it doth not long appeare▪
For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
Because it earst was nought, it turnes to nought.