Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 10
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life’s wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
William Drummond.