Mortality, behold, and fear,

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones,

Hence removed from beds of ease,

Dainty fare, and what might please,

Fretted roofs, and costly shows,

To a roof that flats the nose:

Which proclaims all flesh is grass;

How the world's fair glories pass;

That there is not trust in health,

In youth, in age, in greatness, wealth;

For if such could have reprieved

Those had been immortal lived.

Know from this the world's a snare,

How that greatness is but care,

How all pleasures are but pain,

And how short they do remain:

For here they lie had realms and lands,

That now want strength to stir their hands;

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust

They preach: 'In greatness is not trust'.

Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royalest seed,

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin.

Here the bones of birth have cried,

'Though Gods they were, as men they died'.

Here are sands (ignoble things)

Dropped from the ruined sides of kings;

With whom the poor man's earth being shown

The difference is not easily known.

Here's a world of pomp and state,

Forgotten, dead, disconsolate;

Think, then, this scythe that mows down kings

Exempts no meaner mortal things.

Then bid the wanton lady tread

Amid these mazes of the dead;

And these truly understood

More shall cool and quench the blood

Than her many sports aday,

And her nightly wanton play.

Bid her paint till day of doom,

To this favour she must come.

Bid the merchant gather wealth,

The usurer exact by stealth,

The proud man beat if from his thought,

Yet to this shape all must be brought.