Hark, how the birds do sing,

And woods ring.

All creatures have their joy; and man hath his,

Yet if we rightly measure,

Man’s joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter, than in present, is….

 

Not that he may not here

Taste of the cheer,

But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,

So he must sip and think

Of better drink

He may attain to, after he is dead.

 

But as his joys are double;

So is his trouble. He hath two winters, other things but one

Both frost and thoughts do nip,

And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone….

 

George Herbert (1593-1633), Man’s Medley.