Sic Vita

Henry King (1592–1669)

LIKE to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue,

Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

Or bubbles which on water stood,—

E’en such is man, whose borrowed light

Is straight called in, and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,

The spring entombed in autumn lies,

The dew dries up, the star is shot,

The flight is past,—and man forgot!