Dying at approaching light;
'Tis a landscape vainly gay,
Painted upon crumbling clay;
'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires,
'Tis a smoke that quick expires;
'Tis a bubble,'tis a sigh:
Be prepared, O Man! to die.
They are like strings of precious stones, rosaries, these Tudor laments, one image following another, and however sad in colour, all making beauty:
As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,