What if a day, or a month, or a year

What if a day, or a month, or a year
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings?
Cannot a chance of a night or an hour
Cross thy desires with as many sad tormentings?
Fortune, Honour, Beauty, Youth
Are but blossoms dying;
Wanton Pleasure, doting Love,
Are but shadows flying.
All our joys are but toys,
Idle thoughts deceiving;
None hath power of an hour
In our lives' bereaving.

Earth's but a point to the world, and a man
Is but a point to the world's compared centre:
Shall then a point of a point be so vain
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure?
All is hazard that we have,
There is nothing biding;
Days of pleasure are like streams
Through fair meadows gliding.
Weal and woe, time doth go,
Time is never turning:
Secret fates guide our states,
Both in mirth and mourning.