What if a day, or a month, or a yeare?

What if a day, or a month, or a yeare

Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings?

Cannot a chance of a night or an howre

Crosse thy desires with as many sad tormentings?

Fortune, honor, beauty, youth

Are but blossoms dying;

Wanton pleasure, doating love,

Are but shadowes flying.

All our joyes are but toyes,

Idle thoughts deceiving;

None have power of an howre

In their lives bereaving.

Earthes but a point to the world, and a man

Is but a point to the worlds compared centure:

Shall then a point of a point be so vaine

As to triumph in a seely points adventure?

All is hassard that we have,

There is nothing biding;

Dayes of pleasure are like streames

Through faire meadowes gliding.

Weale and woe, time doth goe,

Time is ever turning:

Secret fates guide our states,

Both in mirth and mourning