Hourglass For Diana - Current 93

My life is measured by this glasse, this glasse

By all those little Sands that through passe

And see how they press, see how they strive, which shall

With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall

And see how they raise a little Mount, and then

With their own weight do level it again

But when they have all got thorough, they give over

Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more

Just such is man whose houres still forward run

Being almost finished 'ere they are begun;

So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we That ere we are, ought at all, we cease to be Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly

And while we sleep, what do we else but die?

How transient are our Joys, and how short their day!

They creep on towards us, but fly away

How stinging are our sorrows!

Where they gain

But the least footing, there they will remain

And how groundless are our hopes, how they deceive

Our childish thoughts, and only sorrow leave!

and how real are our fears!

They blast us still

Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;

How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!

With what toil we pursue them, and with what sweat!

Yet most times for our hurts, so small we seem

Like Children crying for some Mercury

And this gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head

Knows not what cares wait on the Marriage bed

And this vowes Virginity, yet knows not what

Loneness, grief, and discontent attends that state

Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold

And yet how many have been choked with Gold?

This only hunts for honour, yet who shall

Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall?

This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?

With many a sleepless night and racking thought

This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay

Most secret Ambuscados in the way

These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall

Like a pluck’t Rose or fading Lilly fall

Another boasts strong armes, alas Giants have

By silly Dwarfes been dragged unto their grave

These ruffle in rich silk, though ne’re so gay

A well plume’d Peacock is more gay than they

Poore man, what Art!

A Tennis ball of Errour!

A ship of Glasse, toss’d in a Sea of terrour!

Issuing in blood and sorrow from the womb

Crawling in tears and mourning to the tomb!

How slippery are thy paths, and how sure thy fall

How art thou Nothing when thou art most of all?!?