¶Remember Death, and thou shalt neuer sinne.

YE Adams broode and earthly wightes, which breath now on the earth.
Come daunce thys trace, and marke the song of me most mighty Death.
Ful wel my might is knowen & sene, in al the world about,
When I do strike, of force they yeld, both noble, wise & stout.
Of liuing things which breath and bray, I raigne as puisant Prince,
No sooner take they lyfe, but I, pursue it to conuince.
In Mothers wombe the Babe I slay, in birth sometime I strike,
No place nor state may me exempt, to me all is a like.
The Prince with Begger to graue I take, the yong eke wyth the old,
[...]e wise graue men with fooles and dolts, I lodge them in one fold.
[...] courtly Dames, & town wyues fine, though neuer so trim they be,
[...]th Malkins, Sluts, & sloyes they trudge, in graue I make thē gree
The seming braue fine Courtiers, which square it out in gate,
With Hob and Lob I close in clay, and bring them to one state.
The tchuffe with tchinckes and ruddocks red, wherin is all hys trust,
In moment I wyth mysers poore, do hyde hym vp in dust.
The Iudge seuere, and Counceller sage, with me they all must trudge,
I force not for their hye estate, nor feare their hate or grudge.
I wayting am on euery one, as shadow wyth body am I.
And when the myghty God doth byd, I slay them by and by.
Sometyme in game, sometyme in myrth, somtyme in sleepe I kyll,
In eating, drinking, and in sport, I many tymes them spyll.
No place so sure, no food so good, no exercise at all,
Me Death can barre, but at Gods becke to earth I make them fall.
And yet behold how ech one thynckes, to scape me and my dart,
Though neuer so nere I come them to, and grype them to the hart.
My Minstrell Sicknes pipes ech houre, by aches, stitches and cramps,
It soūdes my daunce styll in their eares that they must to my damps.
The lusty Brute with snuffing lookes, by manhood doth hope [...]o lyue
The Coward out, yt feares to fight, though wounds him daily greue▪
[Page] The Coward agayne thinkes long to lyue by sleeping in a whole skin,
With shunning wars and forayn broyles, which countries oft be in.
The rytch by gold, the wyse by wyt, do thinke to shift me of
To Beggers that starue, & careles fooles, but yet them selues thei scot
For one wyth other I take them all, feare they, or feare they not,
The desperat toole and fearefull one go all into my pot.
The youthfull Lads by stout courage, thinke to driue me away
To crooked age, yet many times by ryot I oft them slay.
And old old age hopes styll to lyue, by keepyng a merry hart,
With youthful sports and wanton toyes, though it be to their smart.
Yea my nere Syb and Beldam Trot, that croompled is for age,
By youthly tyre & wanton trickes, thinkes deathes power to aswage.
It makes me laffe oft times to see, their gate, their lookes, their walke,
How halting tryps, and fine wryde iestes they counterfet in talke.
They would ine blere and make folkes think, they wer to yong for me,
And yet forsooth if stript they were, faire Notamies might ye see.
What shall I say to these old folkes, when nature cannot them teach?
By fūbling spech & paines ech wher, which death at hand doth preach.
Nay vsuall is it wyth all states, though sences all be gone,
And I at hand to strike the stroke, yet thincke they not thereon.
Thus all would shift and driue me of, though I them follow & trace,
And dayly send vnto the graue all states before their face.
But fooles they are that dread me so, which cannot be auoyded,
Syth God the maker of all thinges to lyfe hath so me ioyned.
Yet nede they not to shun me so, if all were wayde aryght,
For I the worldly griefes do end, which vexe them day and nyght.
Yea and besides the guyde am I, to heauen and ioyfull blys,
Of those that vertuously do lyue, and feare to do amys.
And to these folke welcomde am I, though neuer so sharpe I pere,
Because with Christ they shal then raigne, and see his glory clere.
But as for those that wicked be, and so still leade their life,
Good cause they haue to dread me sore, for I begin their griefe.
With death I bring an endles wo, which neuer shall haue end,
Wherefore if me you would not dread, your yll lyues then amend.
For precious is the death of those, which dye in Christ their Lord,
Who hath saued them from synne and hel, and ended their discord.
Quoth Ioh. Awd.

❧ IMPRINTED AT LON­don by Iohn Awdeley, dwelling in litle Britaine streete wythout Aldersgate. 1569. The .xxx. of Aprill.

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