Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past-and man forgot.
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