What is life? A trifling thing, to call it
A happiness of sorts, my dear, the lust
Which beacons us forever on to dust.
Deprived then all our senses, and our wit
Then what then do we do with our short time
That falls like grains of sand upon the beach?
Should we loathe and charge into the breach?
Or sing out hearts in all our gaily rhymes?
Those deeply thoughts, are for the deeply mind
For ne'er would I consider such things so kind
as your eyes that burns brightly upon my heart
And I do count myself among those last
Who shall thus die contented when they pass
For you from out my soul, shall ne'er depart