Tixall Poetry/A Broken Stilling-Glasse
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.