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The Hour Glass
by Ben  Jonson

Consider this small dust, here 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,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
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Poem ID: 8051   Poem Posted: 6/13/1999
Viewed: 171803  Voted On: 1653  E-mailed: 329  Commented On: 12
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