They come and slide and pass
Before my tongue can tell thee what.
The posts of time are swift, which having run
Their seven short stages o’er, their short-lived task is done.
OUR DAYS
Begun, we bend
To sleep, to antic plays
And toys, until the first stage end;
12 waning moons, twice 5 times told, we give
To unrecovered loss: we rather breathe than live.