[What is all this world but vaine?]
[1]
What is all this world but vaine?
What are all our ioyes but paine?
What our pleasures but a dreame,
Passing swifely like a streame?
2
Like a flower now we grow,
Like the Sea we ebbe and flow:
Still vncertaine is our change,
Like the winde so doe we range.
3
No contented ioy wee haue,
Till within the silent graue
Our fraile flesh be laid to sleepe;
Then we cease to mourne, to weepe.
4
Who would trust to worldly things,
Which beguile the greatest Kings?
I will set my heart on high,
And contented so will dye.