This is the model of frail man: then say That his duration's only for a day: And in that day more fits of changes pass, Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.
So that th' incessant cares which life invade Might for strong truth their heresy persuade, 90 Who did maintain that human souls are sent Into the body for their punishment: At least with that Greek sage still make us cry, Not to be born, or, being born, to die.
But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope, Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore, Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er. To this, Death is our pilot, and disease The agent which solicits our release. 100
Though crosses then pour on my restless head, Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed: Let this my thought's eternal comfort be, That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see. And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke My body's earthen pitcher must be broke, My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.
[_An Elegy, &c._] It is always well to placate Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather illustrate that 'tendency to _grizzle_' which has been noticed in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It is worth noticing that--a thing rare in his time--he never remarried.]
[Line: 73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse, though we have it once _supra_. It is odd too here, for 'then' would have done just as well.]
[Line: 90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.]
[Line: 93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.]
[Line: 94 Side-note in orig.: _Non nasci, aut quam citissime mori._]
What is th' existence of Man's life But open war, or slumber'd strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, Till Death's cold hand signs his release.
It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, 10 Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave.