Classic Poem

What if a day, or a month, or a year
Crown thy desire with a thousand sweet contentings;
Cannot the chance of a night or an hour
Cross thy delight with as many sad tormentings?
Fortune, honour, beauty, youth,
Are but blossoms dying;
Wanton pleasures, doting love,
Are but shadows flying.
All our joys
Are but toys,
Idle thoughts deceiving.
None have power
Of an hour
In their lives' bereaving.

Earth's but a point to the world; and a man
Is but a point to the earth's comparid centre.
Shall then a point in a point be so vain
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure?
All is hazard that we have,
Here is no abiding;
Days of pleasure are but streams
Through fair meadows gliding.
Weal or woe,
Time doth go,
In time 's no returning.
Secret fates
Guide our states
Both in mirth and mourning.