A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
But the last age, no news of us did heare.
What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day
Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.
To the Moment last past.
O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,
And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,
And leave no print for man to tracke their way.