Book I, 18: On the life of Man

Ovr Life's the Modell of a Winters Day;
Our Soule's the Sun, whose faint and feeble Ray
Gives our Earth light; a light but weak, at strongest,
But low, at highest; very short, at longest:
The childish Teares, that from our eyes doe passe,
Is like the Dew that pearls the morning grasse:
When as our Sun is but an hower high,
We goe to Schoole, to learne; are whipt, and cry:
We truant up and downe; we make a spoyle
Of precious Time, and sport in our owne Toyle:
Our Bed's the quiet Grave; wherein we lay
Our weary Bodyes, tyred with the Day:
The early Trumpet, like the Morning Bell,
Calls to account; where they that have learnd well
Shall find Reward; And such as have mis-pent
Their Time, shall reape an earned punishment:
No wonder, then, to see the Sluggards eyes,
So loath to goe to Bed; so loth to rise.