Classic Poem

When I behold the bier, my last and posting horse,
That bare shall to the grave my vile and carren corse,
Then say I, seely wretch, why doest thou put thy trust
In things each made of clay that soon will turn to dust?

Doest thou not see the young, the hardy, and the fair
That now are past and gone, as though they never were?
Doest thou not see thy self draw hourly to thy last,
As shafts which that are shot at birds that flieth fast?

Doest thou not see how death through smiteth with his lance,
Some by war, some by plague, and some with worldly chance?
What thing is there on earth for pleasure that was made
But goeth more swift away then doth the summer shade?

Lo here the summer flower that sprung the other day,
But winter weareth as fast and bloweth clean away:
Even so shalt thou consume from youth to loathsome age,
For death, he doth not spare the prince more than the page.

Thy house shall be of clay, a clot under thy head;
Until the latter day the grave shall be thy bed;
Until the blowing trumpet doth say to all and some,
Rise up out of your grave, for now the Judge is come.