My Love Is Of A Birth As

Like The Vain Curlings Of The Watery Maze, Which In Smooth Streams A Sinking Weight Does Raise, So Man, Declining Always, Disappears In The Weak Circles Of Increasing Years; And His Short Tumults Of Themselves Compose, While Flowing Time Above His Head Does Close.

Self-preservation, Nature's First Great Law, All The Creatures, Except Man, Doth Awe.

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.

He Nothing Common Did, Or Mean, / Upon That Memorable Scene, / But With His Keener Eye / The Axe's Edge Did Try.