Minutes are numbred by the fall of Sands;
As by an houre-glasse, the span of time
Doth waste us to our graves, and we looke on it.
An age of pleasures revel'd out, comes home
At last, and ends in sorrow, but the life
Weary of ryot, numbers every Sand,
Wayling in sighes, untill the last drop downe,
So to conclude calamity in rest.