All the flowers of the spring 
Meet to perfume our burying; 
These have but their growing prime, 
And man does flourish but his time: 
Survey our progress from our birth; 
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. 
Courts adieu, and all delights, 
All bewitching appetites! 
Sweetest breath and clearest eye, 
Like perfumes, go out and die; 
And consequently this is done 
As shadows wait upon the sun. 
Vain ambition of kings 
Who seek by trophies and dead things 
To leave a living name behind, 
And weave but nets to catch the wind.