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The weavers Memento mori.
An honest weaver willing to make suer
His soule and body with arts ligatur.
Betooke him to his trade, and having got
The knack on't, knit them on a weavers knot.
But death a craftie merchant, found a brack,
And let him plainely see t'would hould no tack,
Here's stuffe quoth hee, alas t'will scarse be worth
The looking on, when J have laid it forth.
Where is the fresh gloss, is this the lively red?
You spake of? tush tis saded, fled, and dead.
A lack and well a day the weaver said,
How dearly have J for this colour paid?
And yet it gives you no content, but J,
Poore J must let, must leave my work and die.
Ah! mee impartiall death where thou dost come,
Thou either curst of, or concludst the thrum.
My beame is strong, but strengh will not prevaile
Golyah's speare stout as my beame did faile:
My nimble shuttle flitting here, and there,
Presents my life's in stable character:
Mark but how swift it to its exit tendes,
So fleetly fly wee all unto our our ends:
Jt puts but forth, and at its port arives,
So doth our death begin even with our lives.
My globe like wheel about its pole is hurld,
Just as the heavens are rapt about the world.
And turning to my filling boy behind me,
His winding pipes, does of my wind pipe mind mee.
Jf hee stand still J must not work, if the aire,
Fill not my pipes my work will soon impaire,
A constant motion to my trade belongs,
So nature hath her loome, my breast, my lungs.
My blouds' her posting shutle swiftly flies,
Through the strait conduits of my arteries.
My purple veines her warping is, my haire
My tendons find, my nerves her tackling are.
My solid parts, my able bones are some,
Appointed beames, some holdfasts of her loome.
And thus in there owne lomes doe all men weave,
And women too from cradle to theire grave.
Nor cease wee all above a minites breath,
Till wee be turned out of worke by death.
Thus from those instruments by which Jearnt
My livelyhood, to dye I likewise learnt.
I looke but on my eyes, And I can read,
In them the seperation of my thread.
In laying of my coulours, still I found,
The lowest, a memento of the ground.
The fashions teach mee since they keep no stay,
The fashion of this world passesaway,
His soule and body with arts ligatur.
Betooke him to his trade, and having got
The knack on't, knit them on a weavers knot.
But death a craftie merchant, found a brack,
And let him plainely see t'would hould no tack,
Here's stuffe quoth hee, alas t'will scarse be worth
The looking on, when J have laid it forth.
Where is the fresh gloss, is this the lively red?
You spake of? tush tis saded, fled, and dead.
A lack and well a day the weaver said,
How dearly have J for this colour paid?
And yet it gives you no content, but J,
Poore J must let, must leave my work and die.
98
Thou either curst of, or concludst the thrum.
My beame is strong, but strengh will not prevaile
Golyah's speare stout as my beame did faile:
My nimble shuttle flitting here, and there,
Presents my life's in stable character:
Mark but how swift it to its exit tendes,
So fleetly fly wee all unto our our ends:
Jt puts but forth, and at its port arives,
So doth our death begin even with our lives.
My globe like wheel about its pole is hurld,
Just as the heavens are rapt about the world.
And turning to my filling boy behind me,
His winding pipes, does of my wind pipe mind mee.
Jf hee stand still J must not work, if the aire,
Fill not my pipes my work will soon impaire,
A constant motion to my trade belongs,
So nature hath her loome, my breast, my lungs.
My blouds' her posting shutle swiftly flies,
Through the strait conduits of my arteries.
My purple veines her warping is, my haire
My tendons find, my nerves her tackling are.
My solid parts, my able bones are some,
Appointed beames, some holdfasts of her loome.
And thus in there owne lomes doe all men weave,
And women too from cradle to theire grave.
Nor cease wee all above a minites breath,
Till wee be turned out of worke by death.
Thus from those instruments by which Jearnt
My livelyhood, to dye I likewise learnt.
I looke but on my eyes, And I can read,
In them the seperation of my thread.
In laying of my coulours, still I found,
The lowest, a memento of the ground.
The fashions teach mee since they keep no stay,
The fashion of this world passesaway,
90
Come then and wellcome death I have enough
Of this vaine world, its fraile, and druggie stuffe.
Can tempt mine eyes no more, come fetch me home
Ile give my life, for death; my loome for lome
Of this vaine world, its fraile, and druggie stuffe.
Can tempt mine eyes no more, come fetch me home
Ile give my life, for death; my loome for lome
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