The wonders of the ayre the trembling of the earth, And the warnings of the world before the Iudgement day. Written by Thomas Churchyard |
Verses fitte for euery one to knowe and confesse. |
The wonders of the ayre | ||
Verses fitte for euery one to knowe and confesse.
To bed I goe from you, God knowes when I shall rise,Nights darknes bids the day adue, till morning glads the skies:
The bed presents the graue, in shrowding sheetes we lie,
The flattring boulster that we haue, is stuft to please the eye:
The blankets are greene grasse, that growes when we are gone,
The pillowes with sun beames do passe, for pilgrimes to looke on:
The couerlet is care, that clothes vs whilst we liue,
The bed staues gentill scourges are, that doth vs warnings giue:
The bedstocke and the tycke, and all belongs to bed,
Is but vaine pleasures that we like, to please wanton head:
Sleepe is of death the shape, to shewe mans substance small,
As earth doth for the body gape, so death will haue vs all:
Then liue as thou shouldst die, when God shall please to stricke,
The graue wherein our bodies lie, and bed are both alike:
But sure when sences steepe, from labour toyle and paine,
The soule for feare doe wayle and weepe, till man awake againe:
Death waites so hard at hand, when soundest sleepe we haue,
That all our state doth doubtfull stand, till body be in graue:
Man shortens his owne dayes, and so doth weare and wast,
By wilfull steps and wicked wayes, that cuts of life in hast:
Sleepe is a steppe to death, and time that weares full fast,
Life waites no longer on the breath, then bloud and health doth last:
When candell waxeth dimme, or neere the socket drawes,
Mans goodly glistring glory trimme, declines by kindly cause:
Then aged syres like me, small tarrying haue you heere,
When faulters shall examind be, they buy their folly deere:
In bed that brings no rest, those strange euents we find,
When roling vp and downe the brest, sad thoughts lodes heauy mind:
The bed breedes dreames and toyes, that idell fancie brings,
More vaine than rash are earthly ioyes, that hinders heauenly things:
The soundest sleepe of all, in Abrahams bosome is,
Heere ioy is mixt with bitter gall, and there gall turnes to blisse:
To bed goe in these bounds, as babes in cloutes are layd,
To rise with Christ (when trumpet sounds) who hath our ransome paid.
FINIS.
The wonders of the ayre | ||