Thinke on thy grave, remember still thy end, Let not thy winding-sheete be staind with guilt; Trust not a fained reconciled frend, More than an open foe (that blood hath spilt): (Who tutcheth pitch, with pitch shalbe defiled), Be not with wanton companie beguiled. Take not a flattring woman to thy wife, A shameles creature, full of wanton words, (Whose bad, thy good, whose lust will end thy life, Cutting thy hart with sharpe two edged knife): Cast not thy minde on her whose lookes allure, But she that shines in truth and vertue pure. Praise not thyselfe, let other men commend thee; Beare not a flattring tongue to glaver anie; Let parents due correction not offend thee; Rob not thy neighbor, seeke the love of manie; Hate not to heare good counsell given thee, Lay not thy money unto usurie. Restraine thy steps from too much libertie, Fulfill not th' envious mans malitious minde; Embrace thy wife, live not in lecherie; Content thyselfe with what fates have assignde: Be rul'd by reason, warning dangers save; True age is reverend worship to thy grave. Be patient in extreame adversitie, (Mans chiefest credit growes by dooing well). Be not high-minded in prosperitie; Falshood abhorre, no lying fable tell. Give not thyselfe to sloth, (the sinke of shame, The moath of time, the enemie to fame). This leare I learned of a bel-dame Trot, (When I was yong and wylde as now thou art), But her good counsell I regarded not, I markt it with my eares, not with my hart. But now I finde it too-too true (my sonne), When my age-withered spring is almost done. Behold my gray head, full of silver haires, My wrinckled skin, deepe furrowes in my face, Cares bring old age, old age increaseth cares; My time is come, and I have run my race: Winter hath snow'd upon my hoarie head, And with my winter all my joyes are dead. And thou love-hating boy, (whom once I loved), Farewell, a thousand-thousand times farewell; My teares the marble-stones to ruth have moved; My sad complaints the babling ecchoes tell: And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on mee, Scorning that crosse which love hath laid upon mee. The hardest steele with fier doth mend his misse, Marble is mollifyde with drops of raine; But thou (more hard than steele or marble is), Doost scorne my teares, and my true love disdaine, Which for thy sake shall everlasting bee, Wrote in the annalls of eternitie. By this, the night, (with darknes over-spred), Had drawne the curtaines of her cole-blacke bed; And Cynthia, muffling her face with a clowd, (Lest all the world of her should be too proud) Had taken conge of the sable night, (That wanting her cannot be halfe so bright.)