Ben Johnson - The Hour Glass (1616)

Do but consider this small dust,
Here running in the glass,
By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this,
The body was
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress’ flame, played like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.