When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.