The Hour-Glass

Consider this small dust, here, in the glass,
By atoms mov'd:
Could you believe, that this the body was
Of one that lov'd;
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Was turn'd to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblest,
To have 't exprest,
Ev'n ashes of lovers find no rest.