Anon - Words by Thomas Campion
What if a day, or a month, or a yeare,
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentlings?
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 never turning:
Secret fates guide our states,
Both in mirth and mourning.