Take Time, while Time is: Being an Exhortation to all sorts or Sexes, of what Degree soever, from the Highest to the Lowest, Old or Young, Rich or Poor.  
To the Tune of, The Lady's Daughter of Paris.  

 

OH stay a while you lusty Lads,  
that seem to skip and mount,  
From me your aged Patron,  
although you make no count  
Of Father, Mother▪ kith or kin,  
what ever they d●t say,  
You snuff and snort when they correct,  
you fly and will not stay.   

Oh stay, I say, and learn of me  
a Lesson by the way:  
You are unfit for any use,  
seeing you'll not obey.  
Behold, I say, the Picture now  
that here doth stand above,  
And be you warned by what I say,  
if that yourselves you love.   

To you he offers now himself,  
until your thread be spun;  
But as he offers, steals away  
until your thread be done.  
Lay hold on him therefore, I say,  
and say, I warned anew,  
Lest that be steal away from you,  
and bid you so adieu.   

For Time doth stay here for no man,  
be't King, be't Prince, be't Peer;  
He leaves them to what life they will,  
be't joy, be't love, be't fear:  
Be't life or death, I say, or aught  
that blind Fate doth ordain,  
As some in bed asleep we see,  
and some in field are slain.   

His Glass that in his hand he holds  
doth cut off all delay,  
His Wings that on his back do stick,  
do show he cannot stay  
For any that comes after him,  
be he swarthy or fair;  
But he must come and stand before,  
and take hold of his hair:   

And when that you have hold of it,  
in no case let it go;  
For having once forsook him quite,  
your footsteps are too slow  
For to lay hold on him again,  
when once that he is past,  
〈◊〉 favours, you must think,  
with you'll not always last▪    

The second Part, To the same tune.  
 

THe Dial fixed upon his Head,  
most evident doth show,  
How fleeting is this mortal life,  
and Time doth always go,  
Although we not perceive it move,  
old age doth come at last,  
And brings diseases on us all,  
our lives are but a blast.   

His Sith within the other hand,  
doth show how he cuts down  
The lives of all, from great to small,  
from Cottage to the Crown:  
We are like grass which soon doth fade,  
and withereth in an hour,  
When Time is past, grim Death doth come,  
and feazeth with his power.   

The Flowers like to youthfulness,  
is fragrant, sweet, and fair,  
But soon is plucked, and vanished,  
as is the smoke in air;  
The swift winged Swallow shows us plain  
how Time doth fleet away,  
We Summer have, and Winter eke,  
and Time for none will stay.   

What though thy Father he be rich,  
and thou be young in years,  
Thinkst then that God hath no means left  
to blast thy Father's ears  
Of Corn, or cattle, or what else  
that doth maintain his fame?  
Yea, God hath means enough in store  
for to confound the same.   

But oh, the mighty number now,  
that in this Land there be,  
That do go up to brave London,  
out of their own Country,  
And there to sport, and play their fill,  
they make it all their joy:  
Their careful Parents counsels all,  
they make of them a toy.   

But if thou followst on this life,  
and meanest therein to lie,  
Thou shalt be barred from God's bliss,  
and damned eternally.  
But be thou ruled by thy friends  
when Counsel they thee give,  
And God shall prosper all thy ways,  
that thou long days mayst live.   

Make much of Time therefore, I say,  
before that thou be'st old,  
Lest that he tell thee to thy teeth,  
that thou art too too bold,  
To trust unto this winged man  
that stieth on so fast:  
For if thou carest not what I say,  
Repentance comes at last.   

But now to make an end with you,  
hoping you know my mind,  
Concerning this same Picture here,  
that I have so defined:  
If that you mark it well, I say,  
and what therein is meant,  
I hope you'll turn your bias round,  
and of the same repent.   

And let us pray unto our God,  
to bless our sovereign King,  
Under whose happy government,  
we enjoy every thing  
That God e'en of his mercy gives,  
and down upon us sends:  
He grant we may be thankful still,  
and send us blessed ends.    
FINIS.   

London, Printed by M. P. for Henry Gosson, dwelling upon London-bridge, near the Gate.