Friday, 25 August 2017
For as the grass by travelers
Is trodden on the ground
So Death shall tread you underfoot
And all your joys confound
All in whose Nostrils was the Breath of Life, of all that was in the dry Land, died.
Woe, grievous Woe, to all who now
In this vile World abide;
For Times await you big with Grief,
And every Ill beside.
Though now to you a plenteous Share
Of Fortune’s Gifts may fall,
Pale Death will be, or soon or late,
A Visitant to all.