Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

PLUCK the fruit and taste the pleasure,

Youthful lordings, of delight;

Whilst occasion gives you seizure,

Feed your fancies and your sight:

After death, when you are gone,

Joy and pleasure is there none.

Here on earth nothing is stable,

Fortune’s changes well are known;

Whilst as youth doth then enable,

Let your seeds of joy be sown:

After death, when you are gone,

Joy and pleasure is there none.

Feast it freely with your lovers,

Blithe and wanton sports do fade,

Whilst that lovely Cupid hovers

Round about this lovely shade:

Sport it freely one to one,

After death is pleasure none.

Now the pleasant spring allureth,

And both place and time invites:

But, alas, what heart endureth

To disclaim his sweet delights?

After death, when we are gone,

Joy and pleasure is there none.