. Emblems, divine and moral. New ed., carefully rev. and corr., with recommendatory prefaces by Augustus Toplady, and John Ryland . in Universities. BOOK III.—EMBLEM XV. Psalm xxxi. life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing. What sullen star ruld my untimely birth, That would not lend my days one hour of mirth I How oft have these bare knees been bent, to gain The slender alms of one poor smile, in vain ! How often, tird with the fastidious light, Have my faint lips implord the shades of night ! How often have my nightly torments prayd For lingring twilight, glutted with the sh
. Emblems, divine and moral. New ed., carefully rev. and corr., with recommendatory prefaces by Augustus Toplady, and John Ryland . in Universities. BOOK III.—EMBLEM XV. Psalm xxxi. life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing. What sullen star ruld my untimely birth, That would not lend my days one hour of mirth I How oft have these bare knees been bent, to gain The slender alms of one poor smile, in vain ! How often, tird with the fastidious light, Have my faint lips implord the shades of night ! How often have my nightly torments prayd For lingring twilight, glutted with the shade ! Day worse than night, night worse than day, appears In fears I spend my nights, my days in tears : I moan unpitied, groan without relief; There is nor end nor measure of my grief. The smiling flowr salutes the day ; it grows Untouchd with care; it neither spins nor sows : O that my tedious life were, like this flowr. Or freed from grief, or fmishd with an hour ! AVhy was I born ? why was I born a man ? And why proportiond by so large a span ? Or why suspended from the common lot, AnJ, being born to die, why die I not?. .//t l>,t\.v iitiif .\7r;; fi/i,i-f,i>if ,- .yimf. BOOK III. EMBLEMS. 23 Ah me ! Avhy is my sorrow-wasted breath Denied the easy privilege of death ? The branded slave, that tugs the weary oar. Obtains the sabbath of a welcome shore : His ransomd stripes are heald; his native soil Sweetens the memry of his foreign toil: But ah ! my sorrows are not half so blest; My labour finds no point, my pains no rest: I barter sighs for tears, and tears for groans. Still vainly rolling Sisyphsean stones. Thou just observer of our flying hours, That, with thy adamantine fangs, devours The brazen monments of renowned kings. Doth thy glass stand 1 or be thy moulting wings Unapt to fly ? if not, why dost thou spare A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair ; A dying breast, that hath but only breath To beg a wound, and strength to crave a dea
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