Life

Sir Walter Raleigh

What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest. 

Next 10 Poems

• Sir Walter Raleigh : Like Truthless Dreams, So Are My Joys Expired
• Sir Walter Raleigh : My Last Will
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Nature That Washed Her Hands In Milk
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Now What Is Love
• Sir Walter Raleigh : On Being Challenged To Write An Epigram In The Manner Of Herrick
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Prais'd Be Diana's Fair And Harmless Light
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Sestina Otiosa
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Song Of Myself
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Stans Puer Ad Mensam
• Sir Walter Raleigh : The Artist

Previous 10 Poems

• Sir Walter Raleigh : His Pilgrimage
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Her Reply
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Farewell To The Court
• Sir Walter Raleigh : Epitaph
• Sir Walter Raleigh : As You Came From The Holy Land
• Sir Walter Raleigh : A Literature Lesson. Sir Patrick Spens In The Eighteenth Century Manner
• Sir Walter Raleigh : A Farewell To False Love
• Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin : To Gnedich
• Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin : The Wondrous Moment Of Our Meeting...
• Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin : The Water-nymph