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A Sonnet of Death,
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316

A Sonnet of Death,

Composed in Latine Rimes, and Paraphrastically translated into the same kinde of verse; both by the former Author.

[_]

Latin verse has been omitted from this poem.

Hark, hark, Death knocks us up with importunity,
There's none shall ever make boast of impunitie.
The Doctor toyles in vain, mans life's not durable,
No med'cine can prevail, this wound's incurable.
What will the countenance of Lords or Noblemen,
Or idle peoples love help or avail thee then?
Nor the worlds bravery, nor yet Court-vanity,
Can stay this Monsters hand, foe to humanity.

317

He knows no reverence, nor cares for any state,
Sweet beauties move him not, thogh ne'er so delicate,
Princes must stoop to him, he rides on martially,
And spares not any man, but strikes impartially.
The rich-mans money-bags are no perswasion,
The beggers wofull cry stirs up no passion,
Hee'l not beguiled be by any fallacy,
Nor yeeld to Rhetorick, wit, art, nor policy.
His look's both pale and wan, yet doth it terrifie,
He masters any man, (alas, what remedy!)
Hee's nothing curious which way the measures be,
But all dance after him that heare his melody.

318

But wo! of all the rest this seems most terrible,
He comes when we know least, and then invisible,
Then quite there endeth all worldly prosperity,
Such is this lives estate, such his severity.
Then oh you wretched men! sith this is evident,
See you more carefull be, oh be more provident!
And when he takes this life, full of incertainty;
You shall live evermore to all eternity.