What is our life? a play of passion, Our mirth the musicke of division, Our mothers wombes the tyring houses be, When we are drest for this short Comedy, Heaven the Judicious sharpe spector is, That sits and markes still who doth act amisse, Our graves that hide us from the searching Sun, Are like drawne curtaynes when the play is done, Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Onely we dye in earnest, that's no Jest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GODS AND THE WINDS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE BREAKING by MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON MORNING MIST by MABEL WARREN ARNOLD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 20. 'SONG IS NOT DEAD' by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 9 by RICHARD BARNFIELD CLIO, NINE ECLOGUES IN HONOUR OF NINE VIRTUES: APOLOGY TO CLEO by WILLIAM BASSE |