Of GOD, to thy doings, a time there is sent,
Which endeth with time that in doing is spent:
For time is itself, but a time for a time,
Forgotten full soon, as the tune of a chime.
In Spring-time we rear, we do sow, and we plant;
In Summer get victuals, lest after we want ;
In Harvest we carry in corn, and the fruit,
In Winter to spend, as we need of each suit.
The year I compare, as I find for a truth,
The Spring unto Childhood, the Summer to Youth,
The Harvest to Manhood, the Winter to Age,
All quickly forgot, as a play on a stage.
Time past is forgotten, ere men be aware;
Time present is thought on, with wonderful care ;
Time coming is feared, and therefore we save,
Yet oft ere it come we be gone to the grave.
The lands and the riches that here we possess,
Be none of our own, if a God we profess;
But lent us of Him, as His talent of gold,
Which being demanded, who can it withhold?
POSIES FOR THINE OWN BED-CHAMBER.
WHAT Wisdom more, what better life, than pleaseth God to send?
What worldly goods, what longer use, than pleaseth God to lend?
What better fare, than well content, agreeing with thy wealth,
What better guest than trusty friend in sickness and in health?
What better bed than Conscience good, to pass the night with sleep,
What better work, than daily care, from sin thyself to keep?
What better thought than think on God, and daily Him to serve,
What better gift than to the poor, that ready be to sterve?
What greater praise of God and man, than mercy for to shew,
Who merciless shall mercy find, that mercy shews to few?
What worse despair, than loth to die, for fear to go to hell?
What greater faith than trust in God, through Christ in heaven to dwell?
To die, dame Nature did man frame;
Death is a thing most perfect sure:
We ought not Nature's works to blame;
She made no thing still to endure.
That law she made when we were born,
That hence we should return again:
To render right we must not scorn;
Death is due debt; it is no pain.
Death hath in all the earth a right;
His power is great, it stretcheth far;
No lord, no prince, can 'scape his might;
No creature can his duty bar.
The wise, the just, the strong, the high,
The chaste, the meek, the free of heart,
The rich, the poor,-who can deny?—
Have yielded all unto his dart.
Seeing no man then can Death 'scape,
Nor hire him hence for any gain,
We ought not fear his carrion shape;
He only brings ill men to pain.
If thou have led thy life aright,
Death is the end of misery;
If thou in God hast thy delight,
Thou diest to live eternally.
Each wight, therefore, while he lives here,
Let him think on his dying day;
In midst of wealth, in midst of cheer,
Let him account he must away.
This thought makes man to God a friend;
This thought doth banish pride and sin;
This thought doth bring a man in th' end
Where he of Death the field shall win.
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