Life

I made a posy, while the day ran by:

“Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie

                           My life within this band.”

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they

By noon most cunningly did steal away,

                           And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;

I took, without more thinking, in good part

                           Time’s gentle admonition;

Who did so sweetly death’s sad taste convey,

Making my mind to smell my fatal day,

                           Yet, sug’ring the suspicion.

Farewell dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,

Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,

                           And after death for cures.

I follow straight without complaints or grief,

Since, if my scent be good, I care not if

                           It be as short as yours.