The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

Death.
WHENCE come you, and where are you going?

Time.
My old Friend Death!—why, I've been mowing:
And here have got a pretty crop
Within my common, trundling Shop.
Nay, I am hastning now to sow:
Though, at the Harvest, as you know,
We never shall be call'd to mow.
For when that's ripe, my ancient Friend,
We shall shake hands, and find an end.
In the mean time, I'll play my part,
And try to fill my daily cart:

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For full or empty I proceed,
Or with the living or the dead.
I trudge on, my old steady pace,
But yet I always win the race;
And though I'm sober in my gait,
You know, I never stop to bait.
Let whip, or spur, the courser goad,
I shall o'ertake him on the road:
For though he paces like the wind,
At last, he will be left behind:
Wind-gall'd, or spavin'd, or broke-down,
He will my better bottom own:
And you'll take care, with all your heart,
To find me Luggage for my Cart.
Aye—partners in one common toil,
We still shall share the mortal spoil.
—But what's your present burden, pray?
The man's dispos'd to disobey;
And while he shows that living face,
With me he cannot have a place.—

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Death.
'Tis true, the Fellow makes a riot:
There's one jerk more—and now he's quiet.
—But, Goody Barton, what's this pother?

Goody Barton.
Pray stop the Cart, and take another.
For since your Worship's been so good
To snatch old Simon of the Wood,
The plague of all the neighbourhood,
Take this old Man; for, to be free,
He long has been a plague to me.
He married me at past threescore,
When I was blooming twenty-four:
And, as I've testimony here,
He swore he should not live a year;
But now, as true as God's in Heaven,
The lying rogue has liv'd eleven:
While this brave Soldier, on his sword
Has sworn, that he will keep his word.
And he, bedeck'd with martial grace,
Has promis'd to supply his place.

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—Now, take an injur'd woman's part,
And shove him into yonder Cart.
—I hope my freedom you'll excuse,—
But I shall weep, if you refuse.

Death.
My Goody, 'tis too late to-day
Time's moving on, and will not stay;
But be at rest, and save your sorrow;—
The Cart will come again, to-morrow.