Current 93 - Hourglass For Diana lyrics

rate me

My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse

By all those little Sands that thorough passe

See how they presse, se how they strive, which shall

With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall

See how they raise a little Mount, and then

With their owne weight doe levell it agen

But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're

Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more

Just such is man whose houres still forward run

Being almost finisht ere they are begun;

So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we

That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be

Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly

And while we sleep, what do we else but die?

How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!

They creepe on towards us, but flie away

How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine

But the least footing, there they will remaine

How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive

Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!

How reall are our feares! they blast us still

Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;

How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!

With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!

Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see

Like Children crying for some Mercurie

This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head

Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed

This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what

Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state

Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold'

And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?

This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall

Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall

This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?

With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought

This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay

Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?

These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall

Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall

Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have

By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave

These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay

A well plum'd Peacock is more gay than theY

Poore man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour

A ship of Glasse, toss'd in a Sea of terrour

Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe

Crauling in tears and mourning to the tombe

How slippery are thy paths, hose sure thy fall

How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!