Vpon the Image of Death

Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs,
That shortly I am like to find:
But yet, alas! full little I
Do thinke hereon, that I must die.

I often looke upon a face
Most vgly, grisly, bare and thinne;
I often view the hollow place,
Where eyes and nose, had sometimes bin:
I see the bones acrosse that lie,
Yet little think that I must die.

I reade the labell vnderneath,
That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence eake that saith,
Remember, man, that thou art dust:
But yet, alas! but seldome, I
Doe thinke indeede that I must die.

Continually at my bed’s head
A hearse doth hang, which doth me tel
That I ere morning may be dead,
Though now I feele my selfe ful well:
But yet, alas! for all this, I
Haue little minde that I must die.

The gowne which I do vse to weare,
The knife wherewith I cut my meate,
And eke that old and ancient chaire
Which is my onely vsuall seate:
All these do tel me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turnd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My yongers daily drop away,
And can I thinke to ’scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

Not Salomon, for all his wit,
Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
No king nor person euer yet
Could ’scape, but Death laid him along:
Wherefore I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

Though all the East did quake to heare
Of Alexander’s dreadfull name,
And all the West did likewise feare
To heare of Iulius Cæsar’s fame,
Yet both by Death in dust now lie;
Who then can ’scape, but he must die?

If none can ’scape Death’s dreadfull dart,
If rich and poore his becke obey;
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
Then I to ’scape shall haue no way.
Oh! grant me grace, O God! that I
My life may mend, sith I must die.