The sick Man's Address to his Candle

Thy size, bright taper, does so quickly waste, It bids me think the present day my last; Tho' narrow limits my short date confine, Compar'd to infinite—what more is mine? This night must end thy being, and before To-morrow's dawn, myself may be no more. Both in life's morn with gayest lustre shine, And, as the night advances, both decline; Both by one common fate seem closely link'd, And after one short blaze shall be extinct; Our lives the same; our periods both agree, So where's the difference 'twixt thou and me?