Man's Life is like a Shadow

ON Earth our days will be but few,
Like as the shadow flies;
Or like unto the Morning-Dew,
Doth pass when Sun doth rise;

So do our Days, our Months, and Years,
Make haste to fly away,
Much like the Blossom he appears,
Which quickly doth decay;

Or like the Flower in the Spring,
Whose beauty's very rare;
And as the Birds in Summer sing,
We may our selves compare.

The glory of the Flowers fail,
The Summer ends also;
The Birds do then themselves bewail,
And know not what to do.

The Blossom withers soon away,
Like Jonah's Gourd 'tis gone;
So we sprout up, and shall not stay,
Our lives will soon be done.