Emblem III.50: This Day, my Houre-glasse, forth is runne

This Day, my Houre-glasse, forth is runne;
Thy Torch, to Morrow, may bee done.

THere is no Day, nor minute of the Day,
In which, there are not may sent away
From Life to Death; or, many drawing on,
Which, must within a little while bee gone.
You, often, view the Grave; you, often, meet
The Buriers, and the Mourners, in the street,
Conveying of some Neighbour, o that home,
Which must, e're long, your dwelling-place become.
You see the Race, of many a youthfull Sonne
Is finish'd, e're his Father's Course is done;
And, that the hand of Death, regardeth neither
Sexe, Youth, nor Age; but, mingleth all together.
You, many times, in your owne houses, heare
The groaes of Death, and view your Children, there,
Your lovng Parents, or, beloved Wives,
To gaspe for breath, and, labour for their lives.
Nay, you your selves, do sometime find the paines
Of Sicknesse, in your Bowels, and your Vaines,
The Harbingers of Death, sometime, begin
To take up your whole Bodie, for their Inne.
You beare their heavie Aches, on your back;
You feele their twinges, make your heart strings crack;
And, sometime, lye imprison'd, and halfe dead,
With Age, or with Diseases, on your bed:
Yet you deferre your ends; and, still contrive,
For temp'rall things; as if you thought to live
Sixe Ages longer: or had quite forgot,
That, you, and others, draw one common-Lot.
But, that, you might not, still, the same forget,
This Emblem, and this Motto, here were set.
Finis libri tertij.