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My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, |
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My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, |
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My crop of corn is but a field tares, |
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And all my good is but vain hope of gain; |
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The day is past, and yet I saw no sun, |
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And now I live, and now my life is done. |
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My tale was heard and yet it was not told |
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My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green, |
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My youth is spent and yet I am not old, |
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I saw the world and yet I was not seen; |
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My thread is cut and yet it is not spun, |
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And now I live, and now my life is done. |
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I sought my death and found it in my womb, |
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I looked for life and saw it was a shade, |
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I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb, |
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And now I die, and now I was but made; |
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My glass is full, and now my glass is run |
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And now I live, and now my life is done. |
