The Hour Glass

by: Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Do but consider this small dust, here running in the glass,

By atoms moved.

Could you believe that this the body was

Of one that loved?

And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,

Turned to cinders by her eye?

Yes, and in death as life unblest,

To have't expressed,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.