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PASSION. XLII. (Book 42)
PLant seated in a loose vnstable soyle,
Know'st not the state of this deceiuing time,
Howe cruell FATE returne with world of spoyle,
After the sacke of a most fertile clime:
What doth earth hould? or sea or ayre contayne,
But a congealed heape or errors vaine.
Our dayes doe moue like shadowes on the wall,
What doth not moue like shadowes light effect?
Howers flie full fast to bring vs vnto thrall,
What doth not flie like shortest howers aspect:
Waues dos ou'r-flowe the sandes that be so wide,
What doth not swell as doth the flowing tyde.
The fruites made ripe by force of hastie time,
Doe soonest fade the blossome being decayed,
And as the flowing waues swell in their prime,
So flies it fast like shadowes forme display'd,
The day is full of labore paynefull toyle,
The day is full of dolors deadly spoyle.
Pale death doth knocke eu'n at thy princely gate:
With like demaunde, as at the cottage poore,
Doth pale death knocke with iust demaund; no hate,
Ingraf'd with wrong, to these extreames do sture:
For he destroyes as well Captayne boulde,
As poorest wretch fram'd of this earthly moulde.