We ought not fear his carrion shape, Each wight, therefore, while he lives here, This thought makes man to God a friend; Man's fleeting life finds surest stay [From the same Collection.] THE sturdy rock, for all his strength, The stately stag that seems so stout, Is caught at length in fowler's net. Yea, man himself, unto whose will Doth fade at length, and fall away. There is no thing but time doth waste; The heavens, the earth, consume at last. But virtue sits, triumphing still, Upon the throne of glorious fame: Though spiteful death man's body kill, Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. By life or death, whatso betides, The state of virtue never slides. COMPLAINT FOR THE LOSS OF A FRIEND. [From the same Collection.] WHY should I longer long to live, A friend I had, to me most dear, And, of long time, faithful and just; There was no one my heart so near, Nor one in whom I had more trust; Whom now of late, without cause why, Fortune hath made my enemy. The grass, methinks, should grow in sky; The water-stream should pass awry; The winds should leave their strength of blast; The sun and moon, by one assent, Should both forsake the firmament; The fish in air should fly with fin, The fowls in flood should bring forth fry, All things methinks should first begin To take their course unnaturally, Afore my friend should alter so, Without a cause to be my foe. But such is fortune's hate, I say, And ceaseth not my heart to break. |