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Poem by Walter Raleigh


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WHAT is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for lifes short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoeer doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest. 



Walter Raleigh


Walter Raleigh's other poems:
  1. On Being Challenged to Write an Epigram in the Manner of Herrick
  2. Sestina Otiosa
  3. If Cynthia Be a Queen
  4. On the Cards and Dice
  5. His Pilgrimage


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