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Henry King - My Midnight Meditation
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Ill busi`d man! why should`st thou take such care 
To lengthen out thy life`s short calendar? 
When ev`ry spectacle thou lookst upon 
Presents and acts thy execution. 
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, 
"Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die. 

"The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) 
Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell: 
Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy 
Covers alike deceased day and thee. 
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall, 
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral."
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