A Rose? that is too beautiful! Life is but grass, saith Plautus, green now, withered anon; thus like the flower that is cut in Summer; as soon as we are born, Death is ready with his Sith; as soon as we are dead, Angels gather in the harvest, on whose wings we are carried to that Barn of Heaven.1 Grass? no saith Philemon, life is no better then a counterfeit picture: what if the colours be fair, and the resemblance near? the shadow of death,2 and the Curtains of our grave will darken all. A picture? that is too honourable; life is (a worse resemblance) but a Play saith Luscinius, we enter at our birth, and act all our life, presently there is an exit, or a back return, and away we go, shutting all up with a sudden Tragedy. A Play? that is too large. Anonymus being asked what was life, he shows himself a little, then hides himself amain; his meaning was this, our life is but a little show, and no sooner are we seen, but immediately are we hid and gone. A show? that is too pleasant; life is nothing but a sleep, saith Philonius, we live secure, and Dormice-like we slumber away our time; when all is done, as if all this were too little, we sleep again, and go from (our grave) the bed, to (that bed) our grave. A sleep? that is too quiet, it is nothing but a dream, saith Aristophanes; all our worldly pleasures are but ⟨p. 3⟩waking dreams, at last Death rouseth our souls that have slept in sin,3 then lifting up our heads and seeing all gone we awake sorrowing. A dream, or the dream of a shadow, saith Pindarus; the worst, the weakest dream that can be imagined; sure one step further, were to arrive at deaths door; and yet thus far are we lead by the hand of Nature: nay if you will lower, death succeeds life, and life is but the image of death, saith Cato. Here is a true picture of our frailty, life is like death; indeed so like; so near together, that we cannot differ each from other.
A Rose? that is too beautifull! Life is but grasse, saith Plautus, green now, withered anon; thus like the flower that is cut in Summer; as soon as we are born, Death is ready with his Sythe; as soon as we are dead, Angels gather in the harvest, on whose wings we are carried to that Barn of Heaven.1 Grasse? no saith Philemon, life is no better then a counterfeit picture: what if the colours be fair, and the resemblance near? the shadow of death,2 and the Curtains of our grave will darken all. A picture? that is too honourable; life is (a worse resemblance) but a Play saith Luscinius, we enter at our birth, and act all our life, presently there is an exit, or a back return, and away we go, shutting all up with a sudden Tragedie. A Play? that is too large. Anonymus being asked what was life, he shews himself a little, then hides himself amain; his meaning was this, our life is but a little show, and no sooner are we seen, but immediately are we hid and gone. A show? that is too pleasant; life is nothing but a sleep, saith Philonius, we live secure, and Dormise-like we slumber away our time; when all is done, as if all this were too little, we sleep again, and go from (our grave) the bed, to (that bed) our grave. A sleep? that is too quiet, it is nothing but a dream, saith Aristophanes; all our worldly pleasures are but ⟨p. 3⟩waking dreams, at last Death rouzeth our souls that have slept in sinne,3 then lifting up our heads and seeing all gone we awake sorrowing. A dream, or the dream of a shadow, saith Pindarus; the worst, the weakest dream that can be imagined; sure one step further, were to arrive at deaths door; and yet thus farre are we lead by the hand of Nature: nay if you will lower, death su•ceeds life, and life is but the image of death, saith Cato. Here is a true picture of our frailty, life is like death; indeed so like; so near together, that we cannot differ each from other.
- 1[Greek or Hebrew], Philemon.〈non-Latin alphabet〉, Philemon.
- 2Scena est ludus quoque vita: Luscin. Cum parumper se ostendisset, mox see abscondit Anonymus: Rodol. Agric. Tu quicscis securus; & in modum gliris sepultus jaces. Philonius. [Greek or Hebrew]. Aristophanes.Scena est ludus quoque vita: Luscin. Cum parumper se ostendisset, mox se abscondit Anonymus: Rodol. Agric. Tu quicscis securus; & in modum gliris sepultus jaces. Philonius. 〈non-Latin alphabet〉. Aristophanes.
- 3[Greek or Hebrew], Pind. in Pyth. Vita quid nisi mortis imago? Cato.〈non-Latin alphabet〉, Pind. in Pyth. Vita quid nisi mortis imago? Cato.
