Thinke on Thy Home, My Soule, and Thinke Aright

 No Trust in Time
by William Drummond 

Looke how the flowre which lingringlie doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queene,
Spoyl'd of that iuice which kept it fresh and greene,
As high as it did raise, bowes low the head:
Right so my life, contentments beeing dead,
Or in their contraries but onelie seene,
With swifter speede declines than earst it spred,
And, blasted, scarce now showes what it hath beene.
As doth the pilgrime therefore whom the night
By darknesse would imprison on his way,
Thinke on thy home, my soule, and thinke aright
Of what yet restes thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sunne postes westward, passed is thy morne,
And twice it is not giuen thee to bee borne.