Paradise sig. Aiiir

[sig. Aiiir]

Where is the Pearelesse Prince, the frendly Ionathas : Or Absolon whose shape and fauour did surpasse.
Quò Cæsar abiit? celsus imperio, vel diues splendidus, totus in prandio, Dic vbi Tullius, clarius eloquio, vel Aristotelus, summus ingenio. +
(35) where is that Cæsar now, whose high renowned fame? Of sondry conquestes wonne, throughout the world did sounde: Or Diues riche in store, and riche in richely name, whose chest with gold, and dishe with dainties did abounde, where is the passing grace of Tullies pleading skill? (40) Or Aristotles vaine, whose penne had witte and will. +
O esca vermium, ô massa pulueris, ô ros, ô vanitas, cur sic extolleris? Ignoras penitùs vtrum cras vixeris, fac bonum omnibus, quam diupoteris. +
O foode of filthy worme, oh lompe of lothsome clay, O life full like the dew, which morning soone doth wast, (45) O shadow vaine whose shape, with Sunne doth shrinke away, why gloriest thou so much, in honour to be plast? Sith that no certaine houre of life thou doest enioy, Most fit it were, thy time in goodnesse to employ.
Quem breue festum est, hæc mundi gloria, vt vmbra hominum, sic eius gaudia, (50) Quæ semper subtrahit æterna præmia, & ducunt hominum, ad dura deuia. +
How short a banquet, seemes the pompe of high renowne? How like the sencelesse shape of shiuering shadowes thin? Are wanton worldly toyes, whose pleasure plucketh downe, Our hartes from hope, and handes from workes, which heauen should win, (55) And takes vs from the trode, which guides to endlesse gaine, And sets vs in the way, that leades to lasting paine.
Hæc mundi gloria, quæ magni penditur, sacris in litteris, flos fœni dicitur, Vt leui folium, quod vento rapitur, sic vita hominum, hac vita tollitur. +
The pompe of worldly prayse, which worldlinges hold so deare, (60) In holy sacred booke, is likened to a flower, +whose date doth not containe, a weeke, a month, or yeare, But springing now doth fade againe within an hower, And as the lightest leafe, with winde about is throwne, So light is life of man, and lightly hence is blowne. FINIS. My lucke is losse.