XV. Anonymous

WHAT if a day, a month, or a yeare,

Croune thy delights with a thousand wisht contentings,

May not the chance of a night, or an howre,

Crosse those delights with as many sad tormentings?

Fortune, honoure, beautie, youth,

Are but blossomes dying;

Wanton pleasure, doting love,

Are but shadowes flying.

All our joyes

Are but toyes,

Idle thoughts deceaving:

None hath power

Halfe an howre

Of his live’s bereaving.

The earth’s but a pointe of the world, and a man

Is but a poynte of the earth’s compared center:

Shall then a pointe of a pointe be so vayne

As to delight in a sillie poynt’s adventer?

All’s in hazard that we have,

There is nothing byding;

Dayes of pleasures are like streames

Through fayre medowes gliding.

Weale or woe,

Tyme doth goe,

There is no returning.

Secret fates

Guide our states

Both in myrth and mourning.

What shall a man desire in this world,

Since there is nought in this world that’s worth desiring?

Let not a man cast his eyes to the earth,

But to the heavens, with his thoughts high aspiring.

Thinke that living thou must dye,

Be assured thy dayes are tolde:

Though on earth thou seeme to be,

Assure thyself thou art but molde.

All our health

Brings no wealth,

But returnes from whence it came;

So shall we

All agree,

As we be the very same.