SOL.  Alas, my lord! what gave you me to keep
But a few day’s-eyes[39] in my prime of youth? 
And those I have converted to white hairs;
I never lov’d ambitiously to climb,
Or thrust my hand too far into the fire. 
To be in heaven, sure, is a bless’d thing;
But Atlas-like to prop heaven on one’s back,
Cannot but be more labour than delight. 
Such is the state of men in honour plac’d;
They are gold vessels made for servile uses;
High trees that keep the weather from low houses,
But cannot shield the tempest from themselves. 
I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales;
Neither to be so great to be envied,
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me.
Inter utrumque tene, medio tutissimus ibis[40].

SUM.  What dost thou with those balances thou bear’st?

SOL.  In them I weigh the day and night alike: 
This white glass is the hour-glass of the day,
This black one the just measure of the night. 
One more than other holdeth not a grain;
Both serve time’s just proportion to maintain.

SUM.  I like thy moderation wondrous well;
And this thy balance-weighing, the white glass
And black, with equal poise and steadfast hand,
A pattern is to princes and great men,
How to weigh all estates indifferently;
The spiritualty and temporalty alike: 
Neither to be too prodigal of smiles,
Nor too severe in frowning without cause. 
If you be wise, you monarchs of the earth,
Have two such glasses still before your eyes;
Think as you have a white glass running on,
Good days, friends, favour, and all things at beck,
So this white glass run out (as out it will)
The black comes next; your downfall is at hand. 
Take this of me, for somewhat I have tried;
A mighty ebb follows a mighty tide. 
But say, Solstitium, hadst thou nought besides? 
Nought but day’s-eyes and fair looks gave I thee?

SOL.  Nothing, my lord, nor aught more did I ask.

SUM.  But hadst thou always kept thee in my sight,
Thy good deserts, though silent, would have ask’d.

SOL.  Deserts, my lord, of ancient servitors
Are like old sores, which may not be ripp’d up. 
Such use these times have got, that none must beg,
But those that have young limbs to lavish fast.

SUM.  I grieve no more regard was had of thee: 
A little sooner hadst thou spoke to me,
Thou hadst been heard, but now the time is past: 
Death waiteth at the door for thee and me. 
Let us go measure out our beds in clay;
Nought but good deeds hence shall we bear away. 
Be, as thou wert, best steward of my hours,
And so return into thy country bow’rs.

    [Here, SOLSTITIUM goes out with his music, as he comes in.