Do but consider this small dust <br />Here running in the glass, <br />By atoms moved; <br />Could you believe that this <br />The body was <br />Of one that loved? <br />And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly, <br />Turned to cinders by her eye? <br />Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed, <br />To have't expressed, <br />Even ashes of lovers find no rest.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hourglass-6/
