Why are you standing here all alone
In front of the gates
And moaning to yourself over your misfortune
Why are you standing here
Alone  in front of the gates

When the wars are done
The poet speaks of sweet persuasiveness
And the waste and misery that follow great conflicts
And pleads for tranquil times
Two loves I have  of comfort and despair
Which like two spirits do suggest me still
The better angel is a man right fair
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live
When this is known  then to divide the times:
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my eyes have been with young;
So many weeks there the poor fools will lean:
So many years there I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes  hours  days  months  and years
Passed over to the end they were created
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave
Ah  what a life were this
How sweet this
How lovely