You see the plight, I wretched now am in,
I looke much like a threshed ear of corne:
I holde a forme, within a wrimpled skin,
but from my bones, the fat and flesh is worne.
See, see the man, hate plesures minion:

pinde to the bones, with care and wretched mone.

See gallants see, a picture worth the sight,
(as you are now, myself was heretofore)
my body late, stuft ful of many might

As bare as Job, is brought to Death his doore,

My hand of late, which fought to win me fame:
Stif clung with colde, wants forse to write my name.

My legges which bare, my body ful of flesh,
Unable are, to stay my bones upright:

My tung (God wot) which talkt as one would wish
In broken words, can scarce my minde recite.
My head late stuft, with wit and learned skill
may now conceive, but not convay my wil.

What say you freends, this sudain chaunge to see
you rue my greef, you doe like flesh and blood.
But mone your sinnes, and never morne for me,
And to be plain, I would you understood
My hart dooth swim, in seas of more delight:
Then your who seems, to rue my wretched plight.

"What is this world? a net to snare the soule*,
A mas of sinne, a desart of decett:

A moments joy, an age of wretched dole,

A lure from grace, for flesh a toothsome baight,
Unto the minde, a cankerworm of care:
Unsure, unjust; in rendring man his share.

"A place where pride, oreruns the honest minde,
Where rich men joynes, to rob the shiftles wretch
Where bribing mists, the judges eyes doo blinde,
Where Parasites, the fattest crummes do catch.
Where good deserts (which chalenge like reward)
Are over blowen, with blasts of light regard.

"And what is man? Dust, Slime, a puff of winde,
Conceivd in sin, plaste in the woorld with greef,
Brought up with care, til care hath caught his minde,
And then, (til death, vouchsafe him some relief)

These lines between commas form a poem called A Description of the World, by Gascoigne in the Paradise of Dainty Devises. Edit. 1592. C.

Day yea nor night, his care dooth take an end:
To gather goods, for other men to spend.

"O foolish man, that art in office plaste,

Think whence thou camst, and whether the shall goe:
The huge hie Dkes, small windes have over cast,
when slender reeds, in roughest wethers growe.
Even so pale death, oft spares the wretched wight
And woundeth you, who wallow in delight.

"You lusty youths, that nourish hie desire,
Abase your plumes, which makes you look so big:
The Colliers cut, the Courtiars steed wil tire,
Even so the Clark, the Parsones grave dooth dig
whose hap is yet, heer longer life to win:
Dooth heap (God wot) but sorowe unto sinne.

"And to be short, all sortes of men take heede,
the thunder boltes, the loftye Towers teare:
The lightning flash, consumes the house of reed,
Yea more in time, all earthly things will weare,
Save only man, who as his earthly living is:
Shall live in wo, or els in endles blis."

More would I say, if life would lend me space,
but all in vain, death waits of no mans will:
The tired Jade, dooth trip at every pace,
when pampered horse, will praunce against the hil,
To helthfull men, at long discourses sporte,
when few woords, the sick would fain reporte.

The best is this, my will is quickly made,
my welth is small, the more my conscience ease:
This short accompt (which makes me ill a paid)
my loving wife and sonne, will hardly please.
But in this case, to please them as I may:
These folowing woords, my testament do wray.

My soule I first, bequeath Almighty God.
And though my sinnes are grevous in his sight:
I firmly trust, to scape his firy rod,
when as my faith his deer Sonne shall recite
whose precious blood (to quench his Father's ire)
Is sole the cause, that saves me from hel fire.

My body now which once I decked brave
(from whence it came) unto the earth I give :
I wish no pomp, the same for to ingrave,
once buried corn, dooth rot before it live.

And Reader now, what office so thou have,
to whose behoofe, this breef discourse is tolde:
Prepare thy self, eche houre for the grave,
the market eats as wel young sheep as olde.
Even so, the Childe, who feares the smarting rod:
The father oft dooth lead the way to God.

And bothe in time, this worldly life shall leave,
thus sure thou art, but knowst not when to dye:
Then good thou live, least death doo the deceive,
as through good life, thou maist his force defye.
for trust me man, no better match can make:
Then leave unsure, for certain things to take.
Viuit post funera virtus.

AN EPITAPH,

WRITTEN BY G. W. OF THE DEATH, OF M. G
GASKOYGNE.

FOR Gaskoygnes death, leave to mone or morne
You are deceived, alive the man is stil:

Alive? O yea, and laugheth death to scorne,
in that, that he, his fleshly lyfe did kil.

For by such death, two lyves he gaines for one
His soule in heaven dooth live in endles joye
his woorthy woorks, such fame in earth have sowne,
As sack nor wrack, his name can there destroy.

But you will say, by death he only gaines.
And now his life, would many stand in stead:
O dain not Freend (to counterchaunge his paynes)
If now in heaven, he have his earned meade,
For once in earth, his toyle was passing great:
And we devourd the sweet of all his sweat.

Finis.

Nemo ante obitum beatus.