¶ The ende of lyfe, the begynning of blysse.
WHy shoulde we feare to dye?
Or séeke from Death to flye,
When Death the way doth make,
Eche worldly woe to slake,
By whome we passe to ioye,
Where neuer comes annoye.
H. His deuises, for his owne exercise, and his friends pleasure
About this Item
- Title
- H. His deuises, for his owne exercise, and his friends pleasure
- Author
- Howell, Thomas, fl. 1568-1581.
- Publication
- Imprinted at London :: In Fleetestreate, beneath the conduite, at the signe of the Saint Iohn Euangelist, by [W. How? for] H. Iackson,
- Anno. 1581.
- Rights/Permissions
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- Cite this Item
-
"H. His deuises, for his owne exercise, and his friends pleasure." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A03755.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 22, 2024.
Pages
Page [unnumbered]
Our tryflying tryumphs héere,
Though we estéeme them deere,
Are like to vapours vayne,
That waste with little rayne.
Deluding Dreames in déede,
Whereon our fancies féede.
What yéelde our pleasures all,
But swéetenesse mixt with Gall,
Their pryme of chiefest pride,
Unwares away doth slide,
Whose shewe of swéete delight,
Oft dymmes our perfyte sight.
Though Ioue in loftie seate,
Haue placed Princes great,
With Regall rule to raigne,
His glory to explaine,
Yet vades their pompe and powre,
As doth the wythred Flowre.
Loe here the surest staye,
The worlde doth yéelde vs aye,
Thy dearest friend to daye,
To morrow falles away,
Whose wante thou doest bewayle,
When teares may nought preuayle.
Sithe lyfe is myserie,
Uoyde of felicitie,
Full of anxietie,
Giuen to impietie,
The death I happy call,
That doth bereaue such thrall.