Iohn Attey

T H E
F I R S T   B O O K E
OF
A Y R E S
OF FOVRE PARTS

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X. My dayes, my moneths, my yeares.

        My dayes, my moneths, my yeares I spend 
        About a moments gaine, 
  A ioy that in th'inioying ends, 
        A fury quickly slaine. 

  2   A fraile delight, like that Waspes life, 
       Which now both friskes and flies: 
  And in a moments wanton strife, 
       It faints, it pants, it dyes. 

  3   And when I charge my Lance in rest, 
       I triumph in delight: 
  And when I haue the ring transperst, 
       I languish in despite. 

  4   Or like one in a lake-warme Bath, 
       Light wounded in a vaine : 
  Sperts out the spirits of his life. 
       And fainteth without paine. 
    

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www.harald-lillmeyer.kulturserver.de