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A banqvet of daintie conceits

Furnished with verie delicate and choyse inuentions, to delight their mindes, who take pleasure in Musique, and there-withall to sing sweete Ditties, either to the Lute, Bandora, Virginalles, or anie other Instrument. Published at the desire of both Honorable and Worshipfull personages, who haue had copies of diuers of the Ditties heerein contained. Written by A. M. [i.e. Anthony Munday]
 
 

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A Dittie, wherein the breuitie of mans life is described, how soone his pompe vanisheth away, and he brought to his latest home.
 
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A Dittie, wherein the breuitie of mans life is described, how soone his pompe vanisheth away, and he brought to his latest home.

[_]

This Ditty may be sung to the Venetian Allemaigne.

The statelie Pine, whose braunches spreade so faire,
by winde or weather wasted is at length:


The sturdie Oake that clymeth in the ayre,
in time dooth lose his beautie and his strength.
The fayrest Flower that florisht as to daie:
To morrow seemeth like the withered haie.
So fares it with the present state of man,
whose showe of health dooth argue manie yeeres:
But as his life is likened to a span,
so, suddaine sicknes pulles him from his peeres.
And where he seemde for longer time to daie:
To morrow lies he as a lumpe of clay.
The Infant yong, the milke white aged head,
the gallant Youth that braueth with the best:
We see with earth are quickly ouer-spreade,
and both alike brought to their latest rest.
As soone to market commeth to be solde:
The tender Lambes skin, as the Weathers olde.
Death is not partiall, as the Prouerbe saies,
the Prince and Peasant, both with him are one:
The sweetest face that's painted now a daies,
and highest head set forth with pearle and stone.
When he hath brought them to the earthly graue:
Beare no more reckoning then the poorest slaue.
The wealthy Chuffe, that makes his Gold his God,
and scrapes and scratches all the mucke he may:
And with the world dooth play at euen and od,
when Death thinks good to take him hence away.
Hath no more ritches in his winding sheete:
Then the poore soule that sterued in the streete.
Unhappie man that runneth on thy race,
not minding where thy crased bones must rest:


But woe to thee that doost forget thy place,
purchast for thee, to liue amongst the blest.
Spend then thy life in such a good regard:
That Christes blessing may be thy reward.
FINIS.