The pleasant years that seem, so swift that run:

The merry days to end, so fast that fleet:

The joyful nights, of which day dawns so soon:

The happy hours, which mo¹³¹³mo, more do miss, than meet,

Do all consume, as snow against the sun:

And death makes end of all, that life begun.

Since death shall dure, till all the world be waste:

What meaneth man to dread death then so sore?

As man might make¹⁴¹⁴make, apparently, desire or aim, that life should alway last,

Without regard¹⁵¹⁵regard, regarding that, the LORD hath led before

The dance of death, which all must run on row:

Though how, or when, the LORD alone doth know.

If man would mind, what burdens life doth bring:

What grievous crimes to GOD he doth commit:

What plagues, what pangs, what perils thereby spring:

With no sure hour in all his days to sit:

He would sure think, as with great cause I do:

The day of death were better of the two.

Death is a port, whereby we pass to joy:

Life is a lake, that drowneth all in pain:

Death is so dear, it ceaseth all annoy:

Life is so lewd¹⁶¹⁶lewd, foolish, that all it yields is vain.

And as, by life, to bondage man is brought:

E'en so likewise by death was freedom wrought.