LXX. Barnaby Googe

NO vayner thing ther can be found

Amyd this vale of stryfe,

As auncient men report haue made,

Then trust vncertayne lyfe.

This trwe we dayly fynde

By proofes of many yeares,

And many tymes the trothe is tryed

By losse of frendly feares.

Hope whoso lyst in lyfe,

Hath but vncertayne stay;

As tayle of ele, that harder held

Doth sooner slyde away.

When least we thynk thereof,

Most neare approacheth it;

And sodaynly possess the place

Wher lyfe before did sytt.

How many haue byn seen

In helth to go to rest;

And yet, eare mornying tyde, haue ben

With cruell death opprest!

How many in their meales

Haue ioyfully been sett,

That sodaynly in all theyr feasts

Hath yealded earth theyr dett!

Syth thus the lyfe is nought

That in this world we trust;

And that for all the pompe and pryde

The bodie tournes to dust;

Hope for the lyfe aboue,

Which far surmounteth all:

With vertuous mind await the time

When God for vs doth call.