What if a day, or a month, or a yeare
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings?
Cannot a chance of a night or an howre
Crosse thy desires with as many sad tormentings? Fortune, honor, beauty, youth Are but blossoms dying; Wanton pleasure, doating love, Are but shadowes flying. All our joyes are but toyes, Idle thoughts deceiving; None have power of an howre In their lives bereaving.
Earthes but a point to the world, and a man
Is but a point to the worlds compared centure:
Shall then a point of a point be so vaine
As to triumph in a seely points adventure? All is hassard that we have, There is nothing biding; Dayes of pleasure are like streames Through faire meadowes gliding. Weale and woe, time doth goe, Time is ever turning: Secret fates guide our states, Both in mirth and mourning.