Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light Man should begin his work, yet he made night 60 For his repose, in which the weary sense Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense. But now his watchful nights and troubled days Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise. His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine; His pillow quilted with a porcupine; Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear, And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear. Thus, when all forms of death about him keep, He copies death in any form, but sleep. 70 Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man. Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy, That earth his mother, worms his sisters be. That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought, And by corruption unto nothing brought. A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat, Which often reels and falls before his set; 80 A tree which withers faster than it grows; A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows; A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain, And in a moment ravell'd out again. This is the model of frail man: then say That his duration's only for a day: And in that day more fits of changes pass, Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass. So that th' incessant cares which life invade Might for strong truth their heresy persuade, 90 Who did maintain that human souls are sent Into the body for their punishment: At least with that Greek sage still make us cry, Not to be born, or, being born, to die. But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope, Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore, Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er. To this, Death is our pilot, and disease The agent which solicits our release. 100 Though crosses then pour on my restless head, Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed: Let this my thought's eternal comfort be, That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see. And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke My body's earthen pitcher must be broke, My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn. [_An Elegy, &c._] It is always well to placate Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather illustrate that 'tendency to _grizzle_' which has been noticed in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It is worth noticing that--a thing rare in his time--he never remarried.] [Line: 33 this] _MS._ 'his'.]