The Penitent Palmer’s Ode

Whilome in the Winters rage
A Palmer old and full of age,
Sate and thought vpon his youth,
With eyes, teares, and harts ruth,
Being all with cares yblent,
When he thought on yeares mispent,
When his follies came to minde,
How fond loue had made him blinde,
And wrapt him in a field of woes,
Shadowed with pleasures shoes,
Then he sighed and said alas,
Man is sinne, and flesh is grasse.
I thought my mistris haires were gold,
And in her lockes my heart I folde:
Her amber tresses were the sight
That wrapped me in vaine delight:
Her Iuorie front, her pretie chin,
Were stales that drew me on to sin:
Her starrie lookes, her Christall eyes,
Brighter then the Sunnes arise:
Sparkling pleasing flames of fire,
Yoakt my thoughts and my desire,
That I gan crie ere I blin,
Oh her eyes are paths to sin.
Her face was faire, her breath was sweete,
All her lookes for loue was meete:
But loue is follie this I knowe,
And beautie fadeth like to snowe.
Oh why should man delight in pride,
Whose blossome like a deaw doth glide:
When these supposes toucht my thought,
That world was vaine, and beautie nought,
I gan sigh and say alas,
Man is sinne, and flesh is grasse.