Henry King (1592–1669)

LIKE to the falling of a Star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,—

Or like the fresh spring’s gawdy hue,

Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

Or bubbles which on water stood:—

Even such is man, whose borrow’d light

Is straight call’d in, and paid to night.

The Wind blowes out; the Bubble dies;

The Spring entomb’d in Autumn lies;

The Dew dries up; the Star is shot:

The Flight is past—and Man forgot!