M AN'S life was once a span; now one of those
Atoms of which old Sophies did compose
The world; a thing so small, no emptiness
Nature can find at all by his decease;
Nor need she to attenuate the aire,
And spreading it, his vacancy repaire,
The swellings that in hearts and eyes arise
Repay with ample bulk deaths robberies.
Why should we then weep for a thing so slight
Converting lifes short day to a long night?
For sorrowes make one Month seem many years;
Times multiplying glasse is made of tears.
Our life is but a painted perspective;
Grief the false light that doth the distance give;
Nor doth it with delight (as shaddowing)
Set off, but, as a staffe fixt in a spring
Seem crookt and larger; then dry up thy tears,
Since through a double mean nought right appears.