_That the shortnesse of mans life is to bee lengthened by good deeds._
The Valleys, now, all clad in gray By Winter, when Sol darts his ray On neighbouring hills, hee'l naked lay, As heretofore. But when the winter of thy yeares With snow, within thy locks appeares, When hoary frost shall dye thine haires, It parts no more. Summer, and Autumn's quickly gone, Th'approaching Spring will passe as soon: Gray hayres, and chilling cold alone With thee will stay. To thy ill colour, Nard distill'd, Nor the renew'd perfumes o'th' field Of flowres, can any vertue yeild, Or tak't away. Thee, whom thy youth hath giv'n tó day. At night old age will take away. Thy time to double, is, to lay A fame most bright. Whom snach'd by death, his friends bemone, He hath liv'd long. Let every one Write Fames sole heire: that's free alone, From th' rape of night.
Humana linquo: tollite præpetem Nubesque ventique. Ut mihi devii Montes resedere, & volanti Regna porcul, populosque vastos Subegit aer! jam radiantia Delubra Divum, jam mihi regiæ Turres recessere, & relicta in Exiguum tenuantur urbes; Totasq; qua se cunque ferunt vaga Despecto Gentes. O lacrymabilis Jncerta fortuna! ô fluentûm Principia, interitúsque rerum!
Lift me up quickly on your wings, Ye Clouds, and Winds; I leave all earthly things; How Devious Hills give way to mee! And the vast ayre brings under, as I fly, Kingdomes and populous states! see how The Glyst'ring Temples of the Gods doe bow; The glorious Tow'rs of Princes, and Forsaken townes, shrunke into nothing, stand: And as I downward looke, I spy Whole Nations every where all scattred lye. Oh the sad change that Fortune brings! The rise and fall of transitory things!
Hîc ducta primis oppida moenibus Minantur in Coelum: hîc veteres ruunt Muríque turresq;: hîc supinas Pæné cinis sepelivit arces. Hîc mite Coelum, sed rapidæ ruunt In Bella Gentes: hîc placida sedent In pace, sed latè quietos Dira lues populatur agros.
Here walled townes that threatned Heav'n, Now old and ruin'd, with the earth lye even: Here stately Pallaces, that thrust Their heads i'th'ayre, lye buried all in dust. Here the Ayre Temp'rate is and mild, But the fierce people rush to warres, most wild: Here in a joyfull peace they rest, But Direfull Murraines their quiet fields lay wast.