Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies,
Or, like a tender flowret, droops and dies,
Or, like a race, it ends without delay,
Or, like a vapour, vanishes away.

Or, like a candle, it each moment wastes,
Or, like a packet under sail, it hastes,
Or, like a post-boy, gallops very fast,
Or, like the shadow of a cloud, 'tis past.

Strong is our foe, but very weak the fort,
Our death is certain, and our time is short ;
But as the hour of death's a secret still,
Let us be ready, come he, when he will.