1 Life is a Poets fable, And all her daies are lies, Stolne from deaths reckoning table, For I die, for I die, as I speake, Death times the notes that I doe breake. 2 Childhood doth die in youth, And youth in old age dies, I thought I liu'd in truth: But I die, but I die, now I see: Each age of death makes one degree. 3 Farewell the doting score, Or worlds arithmeticke, Life, ile trust thee no more, Till I die, ii. for thy sake, Ile go by deaths new almanacke. 4 This instant of my song, A thousand men lie sicke, A thousand knels are rong: And I die as they sing, They are but dead and I dying. 5 Death is but lifes decay, Life time, time wastes away, Then reason bids me say, That I die, though my breath Prolongs this space of lingring death.