| |
| DEATH is a raw-bon’d shrimp, nor low nor hie, | |
| Yet haz he power to make the highest low; | |
| The summon-maister of mortalitie, | |
| The poore man’s wished friend, the rich man’s foe, | |
| The last remaines of Time’s anatomie: | 5 |
| A thief in pace—in pace more shure than slow; | |
| A sleep, a dreame, whence we are said to have | |
| In sleep a death, and in our bed a grave. | |
| |
| One who, how ere we seeme to have the power | |
| To leave our states, wherein we oft times erre, | 10 |
| To such an one, as sole executour, | |
| Spite of our nose plays executioner: | |
| And as the leane kine did the fat devoure, | |
| So does this meagre slave the mightier; | |
| Nor can we, if we should be choaked for’t, | 15 |
| Remove Death’s action to another court. | |
| |
| Arts though he know, yet he professeth none, | |
| For little haz he, and as little nedes; | |
| Yet haz he trickes to catch the oldest one | |
| That on this earthie globe or centre treades, | 20 |
| Nor will he leave him till his breath be gone, | |
| Cheering the wormes that on his body feedes; | |
| Thus fearelesse he, as he haz ever beene, | |
| Makes his stroke to be felt, not to be seene. | |
| |
| His signe’s in Sagittary, and the but | 25 |
| He shootes at is man’s heart; he ever fits | |
| The shaffs he shootes to th’ quiver they are put: | |
| Won is he not to be by threats, intreats, | |
| Price, power, or prayer: at whats’ere he shoote | |
| Or aimes to hit, he never fails but hits: | 30 |
| Darted he runnes as swift as ever ran | |
| Shot-herring made, just like an Irish-man. | |
| |
| Nor differ they in habite; though he weares | |
| No mantle, flanning trowses, being knowne | |
| By his moath-eaten rayment; he appeares | 35 |
| Right Irish—doublet, breeches, hose of one; | |
| He haz no shift, yet he no vermin feares, | |
| (For vermin Death nor the Irish harbour none): | |
| Yea, in their kind of fight compar’d they are, | |
| For they invade both at unaware. | 40 |
| |
| Death is worm’s caterer, who, when he comes, | |
| Will have provision, though the market starve; | |
| He will be served before the mighty ones, | |
| And knows before where he intends to carve: | |
| It’s he awakes the sin-belulled drones, | 45 |
| And cuts them short, as rightly they deserve; | |
| It’s he that all things to subjection brings, | |
| And plaies at foot-ball with the crowns of kings. | |
| |
| Two empty lodges haz he in his head, | |
| Which had two lights, but now his eies be gone; | 50 |
| Cheekes had he once, but they be hollowed; | |
| Beauty he had, but now appears there none: | |
| For all those moving parts be vanished, | |
| Presenting horrows if but lookt upon; | |
| His colour sable, and his visage grim, | 55 |
| With gastly lookes that still attend on him. | |
| |
| Fleshie he was, but it is pict away, | |
| Belike, for that he haz so much to doe; | |
| If clothed with flesh, he should be forc’d to stay, | |
| And shew (perchance) too much of mercie to | 60 |
| Some young wench, who on the holy day | |
| Might force him love, if she could tell him how; | |
| Which to prevent, and better to restraine him, | |
| He goes so ugly, none should entertaine him. | |
| |
| Yet entertained he will; for though he be | 65 |
| Contemn’d by th’ perfum’d curtezan, whose form | |
| Seemes coy to give him hospitalitie, | |
| Yet when he comes hee’l not one hour adjorne | |
| To give her summons of mortalitie, | |
| Converting that same beauty did adorne | 70 |
| Her composition, to corrupted earth, | |
| Whence she deriv’d both period and birth. | |
| |
| Snaile-like, he comes on us with creeping pace, | |
| And takes us napping when we least think on: | |
| In’s hand an hour-glasse, which inferres our race | 75 |
| Is near an end; and though we strive to shun him, | |
| He moves when we move; and that very place | |
| Whereto we flie, and think we have out-run him, | |
| There he appeares, and tells us it’s not good | |
| To strive against that which cannot be withstood. | 80 |
| |
| If we shed teares, they’re bootless; for his eyes, | |
| In stead of sight, are moulded up with clay: | |
| If we assay to pierce his eares with cries, | |
| Vaine is our labour, fruitless our assay, | |
| For his remorceless eares all motions flies: | 85 |
| Nor will he give the prince a longer day; | |
| His payment must be present, and his doome, | |
| “Return to earth, thy cradle and thy tombe.” | |
| |
| Nor is his summons onely when we’re old, | |
| For age and youth he equally attends; | 90 |
| Nor can we say that we have firmer hold | |
| In youth than age, or further from our ends, | |
| Save that we are by Nature’s virdict told | |
| With length of yeares our hope of life extends: | |
| Thus young or old, if Death approach and say, | 95 |
| “Earth unto earth,” he must perforce obay. | |
| |
| A breath-bereaving breath, a vading shade | |
| Even in motion,—so, as it appears, | |
| He comes to tell us whereto we were made, | |
| And, like a friend, to rid us of our feares; | 100 |
| So as, if his approach were rightly weighed, | |
| He should be welcom’d more with joyes then tears, | |
| Joy to dissolve to earth from whence we came, | |
| That, after death, joy might receive the same. | |
| |
| Naked his scalpe, thrill-open is his nose, | 105 |
| His mouth from eare to eare, his earthie breath | |
| Corrupt and noisome, which makes me suppose | |
| Some mouldie cells the manor-house of Death; | |
| His shapeless leges bend backeward when he goes, | |
| His rake-leane body shrinking underneath; | 110 |
| Feeble he seems, reft both of heart and power, | |
| Yet dare he bend the mightiest emperour. | |
| |
| None he consorts with save worms, and men | |
| Prepar’d for worms’ meat; though he make resort | |
| To country, city, village, now and then; | 115 |
| Yea, where hee’s seldome welcome to the court, | |
| There will he enter, and will summon them; | |
| And goe they must, though they be sorie for’t. | |
| Thus country, citie, village, court, and all, | |
| Must their appearance make when Death doth them call. | 120 |
| |
| Chop-falne, crest-sunke, drie-bon’d anatomie, | |
| Earth-turned, mole-eied, flesh-hook, that puls us hence; | |
| Night-crow, fate’s-doome, that tells us we must die; | |
| Pilgrim-remover, that deprives us sence; | |
| Life’s-date, soule’s-gate that leads from miserie; | 125 |
| Man’s sharp’st assault, admitting no defence; | |
| Time’s exit, or our intreat to that clime | |
| Where there’s no time, nor periood of time. | |
| |
| Nor stands he much upon our dangerous yeare,— | |
| All are alike to him: yea, oft we see, | 130 |
| When we are most secure, then hee’s most neare, | |
| Where th’ yeare clymactericke is his jubile; | |
| For as he can transpose him every where, | |
| East, west, north, south, with all facilitie, | |
| So can he come, so cunning is his stealth, | 135 |
| And take us hence when we are best in health. | |
| |
| Since Death is thus described (for this he is), | |
| Be still prepar’d, lest unprepar’d he come, | |
| And hale you hence for spending time amisse, | |
| (For death is sin’s reward, transgression’s doome), | 140 |
| So when thou dies thou shalt be sure of this, | |
| To have accesse unto the marriage-room, | |
| And for thy tombe, in stead of ivorie, | |
| Marble or brasse, shall vertue cover thee. | |
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