| My life is measur’d by this glasse, this glass
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| By all those little Sands that thorough passe
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| See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
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| With greatest speed speed and greatest quicknesse fall
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| See how they raise a little Mount, and then
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| With their owne weight doe levell it agen
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| But then th’have all got thorough, they give o’re
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| Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more
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| Just such is man whose houres still forward run
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| Being almost finsht ere they are begun
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| So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we
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| That ere w’are ought at all, we cease to be
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| Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly
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| And while we sleep what do we else but die?
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| How transient are our Joyes, how short their days!
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| They creepe on towards us, but flie away
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| How stinging are our sorrows! |
| where they gaine
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| But the least footing there they will remaine
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| How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
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| Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
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| How real are our feares! |
| they blast us still
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| Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
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| How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
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| With that toile we pursue them with that sweat!
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| Yet most times for our hurts so small we see
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| Like Children crying for some mercurie
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| This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
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| Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed
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| This woves Virginity, yet knows not what
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| Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state
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| Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold
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| And yet how many have been choak’d with Gold?
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| This onely hunts for honour yet whop shall
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| Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall
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| This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
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| With many a sleeplesse night and racking though?
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| This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
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| Most secret Ambuscado’s in the way?
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| These triumph in their Beaty, though it shall
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| Like a pluck’t Rose or fading Little fall
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| Another hoasts strong armes, las Giants have
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| By silly Dwarfes been drag’d unto their grave
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| These ruffle in rich silke, though ne’re so gay
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| A well plum’d Peacock is more gay thatn they
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| Poore man, what art! |
| A Tennis ball of Errour
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| A ship of Glasse, toss’d in a Sea of terrour
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| Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe
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| Crauling in tears and mounting to the tombe
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| How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall
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| How art thou Nothing when th’art most of all! |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Hourglass For Rosy Abelisk , by - Current 93. Song from the album Earth Covers Earth, in the genre Альтернатива