Page:The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse.djvu/477

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Wice ten years old, not fully told
 * Since nature gave me breath,

My race is run, my thread is spun,
 * lo here is fatal Death.

All men must dye, and so must I
 * this cannot be revok'd

For Adams sake, this word God spake
 * when he so high provok'd.

Yet live I shall, this life's but small,
 * in place of highest bliss,

Where I shall have all I can crave,
 * no life is like to this.

For what's this life, but care and strife?
 * since first we came from womb.

Our strength doth waste, our time doth haft,
 * and then we go to th' Tomb.