Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die. I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die. I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.' But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die! Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die! The gown which I am used to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual seat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I. My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I. * * * * * If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core. * * * * * May never was the month of love; For May is full of flowers: But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers. With soothing words, inthralled souls She chains in servile bands! Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms. Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain. [1] 'Fine:' end. TIMES GO BY TURNS. The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.