ECCLESI. XX.
Remember Death, and
thou shalt never sinne.
|
WE Adams broode and earthly
|
wightes, which breath now
|
on the earth,
|
Come daunce thys trace, and
|
marke the song of me most
|
mighty Death.
|
Ful wel my might is knowen
|
& sene, in al the world about,
|
When I do strike, of force they
|
yeld, both noble, wise & stout.
|
Of living things which breath and bray, I raigne as puisant Prince,
|
No sooner take they lyfe, but I, pursue it to convince.
|
In Mothers wombe the Babe I slay, in birth sometime I strike,
|
No place nor state may me exempt, to me all is a like.
|
The Prince with Begger to grave I take, the yong eke wyth the old,
|
[?]e wise grave men with fooles and dolts, I lodge them in one fold.
|
Y[?] courtly Dames, & town wives fine, though never so trim they be,
|
W[i]th Malkins, Sluts, & floyes they trudge, in grave I make them gree
|
The seming brave fine Courtiers, which square it out in gate,
|
With Hob and Lob I close in clay, and bring them to one state.
|
The tchuffe with tchinckes and ruddocks red, wherin is all hys trust,
|
In moment I with mysers poore, do hyde hym up in dust.
|
The Judge severe, and Counceller sage, with me they all must trudge,
|
I force not for their hye estate, nor feare their hate or grudge.
|
I wayting am on every one, as shadow with body am I.
|
And when the myghty God doth byd, I slay them by and by.
|
Sometyme in game, sometyme in myrth, somtyme in sleepe I kyll,
|
In eating, drinking, and in sport, I many tymes them spyll.
|
No place so sure, no food so good, no exercise at all,
|
Me Death can barre, but at Gods becke to earth I make them fall.
|
And yet behold how ech one thynckes, to scape me and my dart,
|
Though never so nere I come them to, and grype them to the hart.
|
My Minstrell Sicknes pipes ech houre, by aches, stitches and cramps,
|
It soundes my daunce styll in their eares that they must to my damps.
|
The lusty Brute with snuffing lookes, by manhood doth hope to lyve
|
The Coward out, that feares to fight, though wounds him daily greve.
|
The Coward agayne thinkes long to lyve by sleeping in a whole skin,
|
With shunning wars and forayn broyles, which countries oft be in.
|
The rytch by gold, the wyse by wyt, do thinke to shift me of
|
To Beggers that starve, & careles fooles, but yet them selves thei scof
|
For one wyth other I take them all, feare they, or feare they not,
|
The desperat foole and fearefull one go all into my pot.
|
The youthfull Lads by stout courage, thinke to drive me away
|
To crooked age, yet many times by ryot I oft them slay.
|
And old old age hopes styll to lyve, by keepyng a merry hart,
|
With youthful sports and wanton toyes, though it be to their smart.
|
Yea my nere Syb and Beldam Trot, that croompled is for age,
|
By youthly tyre & wanton trickes, thinkes deathes power to aswage.
|
It makes me laffe oft times to see, their gate, their lookes, their walke,
|
How halting tryps, and fine wryde jestes they counterfet in talke.
|
They would me blere, and make folkes think, they wer to yong for me,
|
And yet forsooth if stript they were, faire Notamies might ye see.
|
What shall I say to these old folkes, when nature cannot them teach?
|
By fumbling spech & paines ech wher, which death at hand doth preach.
|
Nay usuall is it wyth all states, though sences all be gone,
|
And I at hand to strike the stroke, yet thincke they not thereon.
|
Thus all would shift and drive me of, though I them follow & trace,
|
And dayly send unto the grave all states before their face.
|
But fooles they are that dread me so, which cannot be avoyded,
|
Syth God the maker of all thinges to lyfe hath so me joyned.
|
Yet nede they not to shun me so, if all were wayde aryght,
|
For I the worldly griefes do end, which vexe them day and nyght.
|
Yea and besides the guyde am I, to heaven and joyfull blys,
|
Of those that vertuously do lyve, and feare to do amys.
|
And to these folke welcomde am I, though never so sharpe I pere,
|
Because with Christ they shal then raigne, and see his glory clere.
|
But as for those that wicked be, and so still leade their life,
|
Good cause they have to dread me sore, for I begin their griefe.
|
With death I bring an endles wo, which never shall have end,
|
Wherefore if me you would not dread, your yll lyves then amend.
|
For precious is the death of those, which dye in Christ their Lord,
|
Who hath saved them from synne and hel, and ended their discord.
|
|
|
|
|
|