All Flesh, Is Like the Wither’d Hay, And, So It Springs, and Fades Away
THis Infant, and this little Trusse of Hay,
When they are moralized, seeme to say,
That, Flesh is but a tuft of Morning-Grasse,
Both greene, and wither’d, ere the day-light passe.
And, such we truly finde it; for, behold,
Assoone as Man is borne, hee waxeth old,
In Griefes, in Sorrowes, or Necessities;
And, withers ev’ry houre, untill hee dyes:
Now, flourishing, as Grasse, when it is growne,
Straight perishing, as Grasse, when it is mowne.
If, wee with other things, mans Age compare,
His Life is but a Day (For, equall’d are
His Yeares with Houres: His Months, with Minutes bee
Fit parallels; and, ev’ry breathing, wee
May tearme a Day) yet, some, ev’n at the Night
Of that short Day, are dead, and witherd quite.
Before the Morning of our lives bee done,
The Flesh oft fades: Sometime, it growes till Noone:
But, there’s no mortall Flesh, that will abide
Vnparched longer, than till Evening-tide.
For, in it selfe, it alwayes carries that,
Which helpeth so, it selfe to ruinate;
That, though it feele, nor storme, nor scorching flame,
An inbred Canker, will consume the same.
Considering well, and well remembring this,
Account the Flesh no better than it is:
Wrong not thine everlasting Soule, to cherish
A Gourd, which in a moments time will perish.
Give it the tendance, fit for fading Crops;
But, for Hay-harvest, lose not better hopes.