What is all this world but vaine ? What are all our ioyes but paine ? What our pleasures but a dreame, Passing swiftly 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.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer