Sonnet 63

A Passing Glance, a Lightning long the skies
Which ush'ring Thunder, dies straight to our sight,
A Sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise,
Thus drown'd is in th' huge Depths of Day and Night:
Is this small trifle, Life, held in such Price,
Of blinded Wights, who ne're judge Ought aright?
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the Flight,
As Life, that wastes it selfe, and living dies.
Ah, what is humane Greatnesse, Valour, Wit?
What fading Beauty, Riches, Honour, Praise?
To what doth serve in golden Thrones to sit,
Thrall Earths vaste Round, triumphall Arches raise?
That's all a Dreame learne in this Princes Fall,
In whom save Death, nought mortall was at all.