The world's a bubble, and the life of man lesse than a span, In his conception wretched, from the wombe, so to the tombe: Curst from the cradle, and brought up to yeares, with cares and feares. Who then to fraile mortality shall trust, But limmes the water, or but writes in dust. Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest: what life is best? Courts are but only superficiall scholes to dandle fooles. The rurall parts are turn'd into a den of savage men. And wher's a city from all vice so free, But may be term'd the worst of all the three? Domesticke cares afflict the husbands bed, or paines his head. Those that live single take it for a curse, or doe things worse. Some would have children, those that have them, mone, or wish them gone. What is it then to have or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife? Our owne affections still at home to please, is a disease, To crosse the sea to any foreine soyle, perills and toyle. Warres with their noyse affright us: when the cease, W'are worse in peace. What then remaines? but that we still should cry, Not to be borne, or being borne to dye. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OF DISTRESS BEING HUMILIATED BY THE CLASSICAL CHINESE POETS by HAYDEN CARRUTH SCHOOLBOYS IN WINTER by JOHN CLARE ONLY WAITING by FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE THE DESTINY OF GENIUS by MARIA ABDY SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 1. THE HAPPENING by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR; A LAY OF SHERWOOD by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |