Come sorrows

Come, sorrow, come, come,

Sweet scale

By the which we ascend

We ascend to the heavenly place,

Where Virtue sitteth smiling

To see how some look pale

With fear to behold

With fear to behold thy ill-favored face,

Vain shows their sense beguiling.

For mirth hath no assurance

Nor warranty of durance.

Hence, pleasures, fly, sweet bait,

On the which they may justly be said to be fools

That surfeit by much tasting;

Like thieves you lie in wait,

Most subtly how to prepare silly souls

For sorrows everlasting.

Wise griefs have joyful turnings,

Nice pleasures end in mournings.