V. Barnaby Barnes

A BLAST of winde, a momentarie breath,

A watrie bubble simbolizde with ayre,

A sunne-blown rose, but for a season fayre,

A ghostly glaunce, a skeleton of death,

A morning-dew perling the grasse beneath,

Whose moysture sunne’s appearance doth impaire;

A lightning glimse, a muse of thought and care,

A planet’s shot, a shade which followeth,

A voice which vanisheth so soone as heard,

The thriftlesse heire of time, a rowling wave,

A shewe no more in action than regard,

A masse of dust, world’s momentarie slave,

Is Man, in state of our olde Adam made,

Soone borne to die, soone flourishing to fade.