XXVIII. Francis Kinwelmersh

ALTHOUGH the purple morning bragges

In brightnes of the sunne,

As though he had of chased night

A glorious conquest wonne:

The time by day gives place againe

To force of drousie night;

And euerie creature is constrainde

To change his lustie plight.

Of pleasures all that here we taste,

We feele the contrarie at last.

In Spryng though pleasant Zephirus

Hath frutefull earth inspired,

And nature hath ech bush, ech branch,

With blossomes braue attired:

Yet fruites and flowers, as buds and bloomes,

Full quickly withered be,

When stormy Winter comes to kill

The Sommer’s jollitie.

By time are got, by time are lost,

All thinges wherein we pleasure most.

Although the seas so calmely glide,

As daungers none appeare,

And dout of stormes in skie is none,

King Phœbus shines so cleere:

Yet when the boystrous windes breake out,

And raging waues do swell,

The seely barke now heaues to heauen,

Now sinckes againe to hell.

Thus change in euerie thing we see,

And nothing constant seemes to bee.

Who floweth most in worldly wealth,

Of wealth is most vnsure;

And he that cheefely tastes of ioy,

Doo sometime woe indure:

Who vaunteth most of numbred freendes,

Forgoe them all he must:

The fairest flesh and liuelest bloud

Is turn’d at length to dust.

Experience giues a certain ground,

That certaine here is nothing found.

Then trust to that which aye remaines,

The blisse of heauens aboue;

Which Time, nor Fate, nor Winde, nor Storme,

Is able to remoue.

Trust to that sure celestiall rocke,

That restes in glorious throne;

That hath been, is, and must be stil

Our anker-holde alone.

The world is all a vanitie;

In heauen seeke we our suretie.

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