Everything to end is made, To impending loss well laid; Passing life we hold most dear, To waiting grave is drawing near; The mem’ries made in bliss, Soon their fateful last will kiss; For, everything will fade, To nothingness.
On the margins of leased time, Mortal breath expires its rhyme; Low crescendo notes of woe, Each rising strain of mirth below; And, though days as bright and fair, Draw each frame onwards graves’ lair: For this the end’s the aim, And wear and tear.
Fair Lady, thou of choice art than choice wine! Thy substance so declares, imperial queen, If beauty must be sought it must be thine; How grand thy graces which of old have been! How grander if thy worth is spoken of, And grandest when with nymphs of earth compared? Who can, thy steps take or the marks thereof, Indite or sing thy royal lay uncleared Of phlegm as resident in lore of man? And who as wise a man as can betake Himself within thy bowers to well learn, The fear of God is first and last, and wake? As Samson, bold from slaughter of a lion, I clasp thee for life’s choice one in a million!