"Weary of that flight"

Hee entred well, by vertuous parts,
Got up and thriv'd with honest arts :
He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honours then,
And had his noble name advanc'd with men :
But weary of that flight,
Hee stoop'd in all mens sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
And sunke in that dead sea of life,
So deep, as he did then death's waters sup ;
But that the Corke of Title buoy'd him up.

It is easy to start well. It is much harder to finish well. I taught this poem the other day as a companion piece to “To Penshurst,” and found myself exercised at myself because I seem to be slipping professionally, spiritually, emotionally, physically. It’s more than just the time of year or the time of semester. It’s also the stage in my life where I’m not sure I’m up to the task.

I tell my students that the hardest thing isn’t the rare act of heroism in a crisis — it’s the getting up every day and doing your job, being a person of integrity, even when the weight of years begins to make your legs shake and your back ache.

Goe now, and tell out dayes summ'd up with feares,
And make them yeares ;
Produce thy masse of miseries on the Stage,
To swell thine age ;
Repeat of things a throng,
To shew thou hast beene long,
Not liv'd ; for life doth her great actions spell,
By what was done and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light : her measures are, how well
Each syllabe answer'd, and was form'd, how faire ;
These make the lines of life, and that's her aire.