Tixall Poetry.
63
A Broken Stilling-Glasse.
You nimble, metled, fyry blade,
Who all of sparkes and spirits made,
Dare with your youth and forces vye,
Even to outstrip mortality;
Behold how much to ruine you,
An other little sparke may doe.
This glas was pure, smooth, rownd, intire,
And lyke a sun breathd only fyre;
Dranke ]yfe of water, soule of wyne,
In baths of rose and jessamine;
With vital spirits only fed,
And yet you see how soon tis dead.
Goe now thy fraile existence boast,
While here's the very essence lost.
Who all of sparkes and spirits made,
Dare with your youth and forces vye,
Even to outstrip mortality;
Behold how much to ruine you,
An other little sparke may doe.
This glas was pure, smooth, rownd, intire,
And lyke a sun breathd only fyre;
Dranke ]yfe of water, soule of wyne,
In baths of rose and jessamine;
With vital spirits only fed,
And yet you see how soon tis dead.
Goe now thy fraile existence boast,
While here's the very essence lost.
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