Hourglass for Rosy Abelisk
My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glass
By all those little Sands that thorough passe
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed speed and greatest quicknesse fall
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen
But then th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more
Just such is man whose houres still forward run
Being almost finsht ere they are begun
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
That ere w'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 Joyes, how short their days!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
But the least footing there they will remaine
How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How real are our feares! they blast us still
Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill
How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
With that toile we pursue them with that sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts so small we see
Like Children crying for some mercurie
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed
This woves Virginity, yet knows not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold
And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour yet whop shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleeplesse night and racking though?
This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beaty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Little fall
Another hoasts strong armes, las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay thatn 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 wombe
Crauling in tears and mounting to the tombe
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall
How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!
-- John Hall (1627-1656)
By all those little Sands that thorough passe
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed speed and greatest quicknesse fall
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen
But then th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more
Just such is man whose houres still forward run
Being almost finsht ere they are begun
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
That ere w'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 Joyes, how short their days!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
But the least footing there they will remaine
How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How real are our feares! they blast us still
Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill
How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
With that toile we pursue them with that sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts so small we see
Like Children crying for some mercurie
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed
This woves Virginity, yet knows not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold
And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour yet whop shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleeplesse night and racking though?
This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beaty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Little fall
Another hoasts strong armes, las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay thatn 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 wombe
Crauling in tears and mounting to the tombe
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall
How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!
-- John Hall (1627-1656)
Credits
Writer(s): David Michael Tibet
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
Other Album Tracks
Altri album
- If A City Is Set Upon A Hill
- The Light Is Leaving Us All
- Bright Dead Star - Single
- The Moons At Your Door
- I Am the Last of All the Field That Fell: A Channel
- HoneySuckle Æons
- Baalstorm, Sing Omega
- Haunted Waves, Moving Graves
- Monohallucinatory Mountain / Aleph At Hallucinatory Mountain
- Aleph At Hallucinatory Mountain
© 2024 All rights reserved. Rockol.com S.r.l. Website image policy
Rockol
- Rockol only uses images and photos made available for promotional purposes (“for press use”) by record companies, artist managements and p.r. agencies.
- Said images are used to exert a right to report and a finality of the criticism, in a degraded mode compliant to copyright laws, and exclusively inclosed in our own informative content.
- Only non-exclusive images addressed to newspaper use and, in general, copyright-free are accepted.
- Live photos are published when licensed by photographers whose copyright is quoted.
- Rockol is available to pay the right holder a fair fee should a published image’s author be unknown at the time of publishing.
Feedback
Please immediately report the presence of images possibly not compliant with the above cases so as to quickly verify an improper use: where confirmed, we would immediately proceed to their removal.