14 Jul The Net, the Pit and the Flashing Door

I dare to strum my throat and sound my voice,
Behold! alas! and lo! dismay’d, disgrace’d:
Many ways hath man forgot to rejoice,
The empty words raineth down on his face.

Fled to the willows, wanting one to see,
With plaints of nothings-not redounding rue,
I eat of all as placed in front of me,
Fatal becometh things we long pursue.

Hath quaint vanity taken Hell to man?
Chaunters, halt! the knell of our fathers crieth,
Our froward dance contracteth ere a span
Nails are fastened, a lone shepherd sigheth.

And golden bowls and spirits journey’d twain,
The final comforts cease, and silence reigns.