Poem 1 of this majority I may post.
What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator
that sits and marks still who act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
That march we, playing, to our latest peace of mind,
Only we die in this horrid world we call home.
