I have seene Cædars fall,
And in their roome a Mushrome grow:
I have seene Comets, threatning all,
Vanish themselves: I have seene Princes so.
Vaine triviall dust! weake man!
Where is that vertue of thy breath,
That others save or ruine can,
When thou thy selfe art cal'd t'account by death?
When I consider thee
The scorne of Time, and sport of fate: