Poem by Ben Jonson

The Hourglass

DO but consider this small dust, here running in the glass,
By atoms moved.
Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that loved?
 
And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes, and in death as life unblest,
To have't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

1. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
2. To Censorious Courtling
3. His Supposed Mistress
4. Queen and Huntress
5. Porth Ceiriad Bay

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