That whil'st we live we shall be playd with so,
And that the World will make her Game of us.
Adversities, one while our hearts constraine
To stoope, and knock the Pavements of Despaire;
Hope, like a Whirle-wind mounts us up againe,
Till oft it lose us in the empty ayre.
Sometimes, above the Battlements we looke;
Sometimes, we quite below the Line are tost:
Another-while, against the Hazard strooke,
We, but a little want, of being lost.