What if a day, or a month, or a yeare
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings?
Cannot a chance of a night or an howre
Crosse thy desires with as many sad tormentings?
Fortune, honor, beauty, youth
Are but blossoms dying;
Wanton pleasure, doating love
Are but shadowes flying
All our joyes are but toyes
Idle thoughts deceiving;
None have power of an howre
In their lives bereaving

Earthes but a point to the world, and a man
Is but a point to the worlds compared centure:
Shall then a point of a point be so vaine
As to triumph in a seely points adventure?
All is hassard that we have
There is nothing biding;
Dayes of pleasure are like streames
Through faire meadowes gliding
Weale and woe, time doth goe
Time is ever turning:
Secret fates guide our states
Both in mirth and mourning