And Weave But Nets To Catch The Wind

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 the ambition of kings
who seek by trophies and dead things
to leave a living name behind
and weave but nets to catch the wind
--john webster (1580--1630)