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Home  »  The English Poets  »  Third Chorus from The Tragedy of Darius

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden

William Alexander, Earl of Stirling (1567?–1640)

Third Chorus from The Tragedy of Darius

TIME, through Jove’s judgment just,

Huge alteration brings;

Those are but fools who trust

In transitory things,

Whose tails bear mortal stings,

Which in the end will wound;

And let none think it strange,

Though all things earthly change:

In this inferior round

What is from ruin free?

The elements which be

At variance, as we see,

Each th’ other doth confound:

The earth and air make war,

The fire and water are

Still wrestling at debate,

All those through cold and heat

Through drought and moisture jar.

What wonder though men change and fade

Who of those changing elements are made?

How dare vain worldlings vaunt

Of Fortune’s goods not lasting,

Evils which our wits enchant?

Expos’d to loss and wasting!

Lo, we to death are hasting,

Whilst we those things discuss.

All things from their beginning

Still to an end are running,

Heaven hath ordained it thus;

We hear how it doth thunder,

We see th’ earth burst asunder,

And yet we never ponder

What this imports to us:

These fearful signs do prove

That th’ angry powers above

Are mov’d to indignation

Against this wretched nation,

Which they no longer love:

What are we but a puff of breath

Who live assured of nothing but of death?

Who was so happy yet

As never had some cross?

Though on a throne he sit,

And is not vexed with loss,

Yet fortune once will toss

Him, when that least he would;

If one had all at once

Hydaspes’ precious stones

And yellow Tagus’ gold;

The oriental treasure

And every earthly pleasure,

Even in the greatest measure

It should not make him bold:

For while he lives secure,

His state is most unsure;

When it doth least appear

Some heavy plague draws near,

Destruction to procure.

World’s glory is but like a flower,

Which both is bloom’d and blasted in an hour.

In what we most repose

We find our comfort light,

The thing we soonest lose

That ’s precious in our sight;

In honour, riches, might,

Our lives in pawn we lay;

Yet all like flying shadows,

Or flowers enameling meadows,

Do vanish and decay.

Long time we toil to find

These idols of the mind,

Which had, we cannot bind

To bide with us one day.

Then why should we presume

On treasures that consume,

Difficult to obtain,

Difficult to retain,

A dream, a breath, a fume?

Which vex them most that them possess,

Who starve with store and famish with excess.