The pleasant years that seem, so swift that run:
The merry days to end, so fast that fleet:
The joyful nights, of which day dawns so soon:
The happy hours, which mo1313mo, more do miss, than meet,
Do all consume, as snow against the sun:
And death makes end of all, that life begun.
Since death shall dure, till all the world be waste:
What meaneth man to dread death then so sore?
As man might make1414make, apparently, desire or aim, that life should alway last,
Without regard1515regard, regarding that, the LORD hath led before
The dance of death, which all must run on row:
Though how, or when, the LORD alone doth know.
If man would mind, what burdens life doth bring:
What grievous crimes to GOD he doth commit:
What plagues, what pangs, what perils thereby spring:
With no sure hour in all his days to sit:
He would sure think, as with great cause I do:
The day of death were better of the two.
Death is a port, whereby we pass to joy:
Life is a lake, that drowneth all in pain:
Death is so dear, it ceaseth all annoy:
Life is so lewd1616lewd, foolish, that all it yields is vain.
And as, by life, to bondage man is brought:
E'en so likewise by death was freedom wrought.