#4:1-9

[thgdbk]

My prime of youth is a frost of cares, My feast of joy but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is a field of tares, My wealth no more than dreams of gain; My day is fled, yet I saw no sun; And though I live, my life is done.

My spring is past, but not yet sprung; The fruit is dead, with leaves still green; My youth is past, though I still young; I saw the world, myself unseen. My thread is cut, though not yet spun; And though I live, my life is done.

I sought for death, it was the womb; I looked for life, it was a shade; I tread the ground, which is my tomb; And now I die, though just new made The glass is full, yet my glass is run; And though I live, my life is done.