06 February 2016

Upon a Fit of Sickness

Twice ten years old, not fully told
Since nature gave me breath,
My race is run, my thread is spun,
lo here is fatal Death.
All men must dye, and so must I
this cannot be revok'd
For Adams sake, this word God spake
when he so high provok'd.
Yet live I shall, this life's but small,
in place of highest bliss,
Where I shall have all I can crave,
no life is like to this.
For what's this life, but care and strife?
since first we came from womb,
Our strength doth waste, our time doth hast,
and then we go to th' Tomb.
O Bubble blast, how long can'st last?
that alwayes art a breaking,
No sooner blown, but dead and gone,
ev'n as a word that's speaking.
O whil'st I live, this grave me give,
I doing good may be,
Then deaths arrest I shall count best,
because it's thy decree;
Bestow much cost, there's nothing lost,
to make Salvation sure,
O great's the gain, though got with pain,
comes by profession pure.
The race is run, the field is won,
the victory's mine I see,
For ever know, thou envious foe,
the foyle belongs to thee.

Anne Bradstreet

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