| |
| TO bed I goe from you— | |
| God knowes when I shall rise; | |
| Night’s darknes bids the day adue, | |
| Till morning glads the skies. | |
| |
| The bed presents the graue: | 5 |
| In shrowding sheetes we lie; | |
| The flattring boulster that we haue | |
| Is stuft to please the eye. | |
| |
| The blankets are greene grasse, | |
| That growes when we are gone; | 10 |
| The pillowes with sun-beames do passe | |
| For pilgrimes to looke on. | |
| |
| The couerlet is care, | |
| That clothes vs whilst we liue; | |
| The bed-staues gentill scourges are, | 15 |
| That doth vs warnings giue. | |
| |
| The bedstocke and the tycke, | |
| And all belongs to bed, | |
| Is but vaine pleasures that we like | |
| To please a wanton head. | 20 |
| |
| Sleepe is of death the shape, | |
| To shewe man’s substance small: | |
| As earth doth for the body gape, | |
| So death will haue vs all. | |
| |
| Then liue as thou shouldst die, | 25 |
| When God shall please to stricke: | |
| The graue whereon our bodies lie, | |
| And bed, are both alike. | |
| |
| But sure, when sences sleepe | |
| From labour, toyle, and paine, | 30 |
| The soule for feare doe wayle and weepe, | |
| ’Till man awake againe. | |
| |
| Death waites so hard at hand, | |
| When soundest sleepe we haue, | |
| That all our state doth doubtfull stand | 35 |
| Till body be in graue. | |
| |
| Man shortens his own dayes, | |
| And so doth weare and wast | |
| By wilful stepes and wicked wayes, | |
| That cuts of life in hast. | 40 |
| |
| Sleepe is a step to death, | |
| And time that weares full fast; | |
| Life waites no longer on the breath | |
| Then bloud and health doth last. | |
| |
| When candell waxeth dimme, | 45 |
| Or neere the socket drawes, | |
| Man’s goodly glistring glory trimme | |
| Declines by kindly cause. | |
| |
| Then aged syres, like me, | |
| Small tarrying haue you heere; | 50 |
| When faulters shall examined be, | |
| They buy their folly deere. | |
| |
| In bed that brings no rest | |
| Those strange euents we find, | |
| When roling vp and downe the brest, | 55 |
| Sad thoughts bodes heauy mind. | |
| |
| The bed breedes dreames and toys, | |
| That idell fancie brings; | |
| More vaine than rash are earthly ioyes, | |
| That hinders heauenly things. | 60 |
| |
| The soundest sleepe of all | |
| In Abrahame’s bosome is: | |
| Heere ioy is mixt with bitter gall, | |
| And there gall turnes to blisse. | |
| |
| To bed goe in these bounds, | 65 |
| As babes in cloutes are layd, | |
| To rise with Christ when trumpet sounds, | |
| Who hath our ransome paid. | |
| |
