Of the short estate of man.

MY restlesse life, hath reapt that woe hath sowne,
The daies tormoile brings home but bitter smarte:
I liue with wolues, in sauage woodds vnknowne,
Where Tigers whelpes, do feede on harmles hart
O cage of care, wherein no birde can syng,
But doleful tunes, that maie no Musicke showe:
And though eche man, knowes well where greef doeth wryng,
Yet can no life, discharge it self of woe.
Then Hell is here, finde Heauen where you can,
In banisht blisse, our bodies wander still:
And out of breathe, ronnes wretched sprite of man,
Beguilde by hope, and gaddyng greedy will.
Thus life is death, and death is moste desir'd:
Where labryng mynde, with wearie life is tir'd.