Life
I MADE a posy while the day ran by:Here will I smell my remnant out, and tieMy life within this band;But Time did beckon to the flowers, and theyBy noon most cunningly did steal away,And withered in my hand.
My hand was next to them, and then my heart;I took, without more thinking, in good partTime’s gentle admonition;Who did so sweetly Death’s sad taste convey,Making my mind to smell my fatal day,Yet sugaring the suspicion.
Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye spent,Fit while ye lived for smell or ornament,And after death for cures.I follow straight, without complaints or grief,Since if my scent be good, I care not ifIt be as short as yours.