Minutes are numbred by the fall of Sands;
As by an houre-glasse, the span of time
Doth waste vs to our graves, and we looke on it.
An age of pleasures reuel'd out, comes home
At last, and ends in sorrow, but the life
Weary of ryot, numbers every Sand,
Wayling in sighes, vntill the last drop downe,
So to conclude calamity in rest.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Monday, September 16, 2019
The Span of Time
John Ford (1586-1639), The Lover's Melancholy 4.3.57-64: