Sic Vita

Like to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy 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 borrowed light

Is straight called in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies;

The spring entombed in autumn lies;

The dew dries up, the star is shot;

The flight is past, and man forgot.