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Though Fortune have set thee on high,
Remember yet that thou shalt die.

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To die, dame Nature did man frame:

Death is a thing most perfect sure: We ought not Nature's works to blame;

She made no thing still to endure. That law she made when we were born, - ;'

That hence we should return again: To render right we must not scorn:

Death is due debt: it is no pain.

Death hath in all the earth a right;

His power is great, it stretcheth far:
No lord, no prince, can scape his might;

No creature can his duty bar.
The wise, the just the strong, the high,

The chaste, the meek, the free of heart, The rich, the poor who can deny. ?

-?Have yielded all unto his dart.

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Seeing no man then can Death escape,

Nor hire him hence for any gain,

We ought not fear his carrion shape;

He only brings ill men to pain. If thou have led thy life aright,

Death is the end of misery : If thou in God hast thy delight,

Thou diest to live eternally.

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Each wight, therefore, while he lives here,

Let him think on his dying day:
In midst of wealth, in midst of cheer,

Let him account he must away.
This thought makes man to God a friend ;

This thought doth banish pride and sin;
This thought doth bring a man in th’end
Where he of Death the field shall win.

[Signed T. Marshall, ed. 1577.)

Man's flitting life finds surest stay
Where sacred Virtue beareth sway.

[From the same Collection.]
The sturdy rock, for all his strength,

By raging seas is rent in twain ; The marble stone is pierc'd at length,

With little drops of drizzling rain : The ox doth yield unto the yoke; The steel obey'th the hammer-stroke.

The stately stag that seems so stout,

By yelping hounds at bay is set:
The swiftest bird, that fees about,

Is caught at length in fowler's net :
The greatest fish in deepest brook
Is soon deceiv'd with subtle hook.

Yea, man himself, unto whose will

All things are bounden to obey,
For all his wit, and worthy skill,

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.

Dr. Percy says, this poem is “ subscribed M. T. “perhaps invertedly for T. Marshall.” Mr. Ritson (Bibl. Poet.) ascribes it “ rather to M. Thorn, “ whose surname is elsewhere printed at length.”

M. he adds, seems to be frequently used for Master.

[From the same Collection.]

Why should I longer long to live

In this disease of fantasy,
Since Fortune doth not cease to give

Things to my mind most contrary :
And at my joys doth lower and frown,
'Till she hath turn'd them upside-down?

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 stars unto the earth cleave fast; 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 ;



friend should alter so, Without a cause to be my


But such is Fortune's hate, I say,

Such is her will on me to wreak; Such spite she hath at me alway,

And ceaseth not my heart to break. With such despite of cruelty, Wherefore then longer live should I?

[Signed E. $. in ed, 1577.]

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