LINES.
This world a hunting is
The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death;
His speedy grayhounds are
Lust, sickness, envy, care,
Strife that ne’er falls amiss,
With all those ills that harm’d us while we breathe.
Now if by chance we fly,
Of these the eager chase,
Old age, with stealing pace,
Casts on us his nets, and then we panting die.
William Drummond, 1585–1649.
