The Treasury Of Sacred Song

W. Habington

What am I who dare call Thee, GOD!

And raise my fancy to discourse Thy power?

To whom dust is the period,

Who am not sure to farm [72] this very hour?

For how know I the latest sand

In my frail glass of life, doth not now fall?

And while I thus astonish'd stand

I but prepare for my own funeral?

Death doth with man no order keep:

It reckons not by the expense [73] of years,

But makes the Queen and beggar weep,

And ne'er distinguishes between their tears.

He who the victory doth gain

Falls as he him pursues, who from him flies,

And is by too good fortune slain:

The lover in his amorous courtship dies:

The statesman suddenly expires

While he for others ruin doth prepare:

And the gay Lady while she admires

Her pride, and curls in wanton nets her hair.

No state of man is fortified

'Gainst the assault of th' universal doom:

But who the Almighty fear, deride

Pale Death, and meet with triumph in the tomb.