Methinks I draw but sickly breath:

Who knows but I

Before next night may sleeping lie,

Rock'd in the arms of death?

The swift-foot minutes pass away;

For Time hath wings,

That flag not for the breath of kings,

Nor brook the least delay.

And what a parcel of my sand

Is yet to pass,

Or what may break the crazy glass,

How shall I understand?

Then, base delights and dunghill joys!

Farewell, adieu!

While yet I live I'm dead to you,

And such-like toys.

I would not longer own a thought

That crawls so low,

Or lavish out my wishes so

In quest of less than nought.

My soul is wing'd with quick desires

To pass the sky;

Nothing below what is most high

Allays those noble fires.

LORD, as the kindling is from Thee,

So Thine the breath

That must continue it, till death

Be dead and cease to be.