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Thus if thou try thy daily deeds,
And pleasure in this pain,
Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds,
And thine shall be the gain:
But if thy sinful, sluggish eye,
Will venture for to wink,
Before thy wading will may try
How far thy soul may sink,
Beware and wake,[1] for else thy bed,
Which soft and smooth is made,
May heap more harm upon thy head
Than blows of en'my's blade.
Thus if this pain procure thine ease,
In bed as thou dost lie,
Perhaps it shall not God displease,
To sing thus soberly:
'I see that sleep is lent me here,
To ease my weary bones,
As death at last shall eke appear,
To ease my grievous groans.
'My daily sports, my paunch full fed,
Have caused my drowsy eye,
As careless life, in quiet led,
Might cause my soul to die:
The stretching arms, the yawning breath,
Which I to bedward use,
Are patterns of the pangs of death,
When life will me refuse;
'And of my bed each sundry part,
In shadows, doth resemble
The sundry shapes of death, whose dart
Shall make my flesh to tremble.


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