Classic Poem

Methinks I draw but sickly breath:
Who knows but I
Before next night may sleeping lie,
Rock'd in the arms of death?

The swift-foot minutes pass away;
For Time hath wings,
That flag not for the breath of kings,
Nor brook the least delay.

And what a parcel of my sand
Is yet to pass,
Or what may break the crazy glass,
How shall I understand?

Then, base delights and dunghill joys!
Farewell, adieu!
While yet I live I'm dead to you,
And such-like toys.

I would not longer own a thought
That crawls so low,
Or lavish out my wishes so
In quest of less than nought.

My soul is wing'd with quick desires
To pass the sky;
Nothing below what is most high
Allays those noble fires.

Lord , as the kindling is from Thee,
So Thine the breath
That must continue it, till death
Be dead and cease to be.