ECCLESI. XX.  
¶ Remember Death, and thou shalt never sin.  
YE adam's brood and earthly wights, which breath now on the earth.  
Come dance this trace, and mark the song of me most mighty Death.  
Full well my might is known & seen, in all the world about,  
When I do strike, of force they yield, both noble, wise & stout.  
Of living things which breath and bray, I reign as puissant Prince,  
No sooner take they life, but I, pursue it to convince.  
In Mother's womb the Babe I slay, in birth sometime I strike,  
No place nor state may me exempt, to me all is a like.  
The Prince with Beggar to grave I take, the young eke with the old,  
●●e wise grave men with fools and dolts, I lodge them in one fold.  
〈◊〉 courtly Dames, & town wives fine, though never so trim they be,  
●●th Malkins, Sluts, & sloyes they trudge, in grave I make them 'gree  
The seeming brave fine Courtiers, which square it out in gate,  
With Hob and Job I close in clay, and bring them to one state.  
The tchuffe with tchinckes and ruddocks red, wherein is all his trust,  
In moment I with miser's poor, do hide him up in dust.  
The judge severe, and Counsellor sage, with me they all must trudge,  
I force not for their high estate, nor fear their hate or grudge.  
I waiting am on every one, as shadow with body am 1  
And when the mighty God doth bid, I slay them by and by.  
Sometime in game, sometime in mirth, sometime in sleep I kill,  
In eating, drinking, and in sport, I many times them spill.  
No place so sure, no food so good, no exercise at all,  
Me Death can bar, but at God's beck to earth I make them fall.  
And yet behold how each one thynckes, to scape me and my dart,  
Though never so near I come them to, and gripe them to the heart.  
My Minstrel Sickness pipes each hour, by aches, stitches and cramps,  
It sounds my dance still in their ears that they must to my damps.  
The lusty Brute with snuffing looks, by manhood doth hope ●o live  
The Coward out, that fears to fight, though wounds him daily grieve▪  
The Coward again thinks long to live by sleeping in a whole skin,  
With shunning wars and foreign broils, which countries oft be in.  
The rich by gold, the wise by wit, do think to shift me of  
To Beggars that starve, & careless fools, but yet themselves they scot▪  
For one with other I take them all, fear they, or fear they not,  
The desperate tool and fearful one go all into my pot.  
The youthful Lads by stout courage, think to drive me away  
To crooked age, yet many times by riot I oft them slay.  
And old old age hopes still to live, by keeping a merry heart,  
With youthful sports and wanton toys, though it be to their smart.  
Yea my near Syb and Beldame Trot, that croompled is for age,  
By youthly tire & wanton tricks, thinks deaths power to assuage.  
It makes me laugh oft times to see, their gate, their looks, their walk,  
How halting trips, and fine wried jests they counterfeit in talk.  
They would in blear and make folks think, they were to young for me,  
And yet forsooth if stripped they were, fair Notamies might ye see.  
What shall I say to these old folks, when nature cannot them teach?  
By fumbling speech & pains each where, which death at hand doth preach.  
Nay usual is it with all states, though senses all be gone,  
And I at hand to strike the stroke, yet think they not thereon.  
Thus all would shift and drive me of, though I them follow & trace,  
And daily send unto the grave all states before their face.  
But fools they are that dread me so, which cannot be avoided,  
Sith God the maker of all things to life hath so me joined.  
Yet need they not to shun me so, if all were weighed aright,  
For I the worldly griefs do end, which vex them day and night.  
Yea and besides the guide am I, to heaven and joyful bliss,  
Of those that virtuously do live, and fear to do amiss.  
And to these folk welcomed am I, though never so sharp I pere,  
Because with Christ they shall then reign, and see his glory clear.  
But as for those that wicked be, and so still lead their life,  
Good cause they have to dread me sore, for I begin their grief.  
With death I bring an endless woe, which never shall have end,  
Wherefore if me you would not dread, your ill lives then amend.  
For precious is the death of those, which die in Christ their Lord,  
Who hath saved them from sin and hell, and ended their discord.  
FINIS.  
Quoth joh. Awed.   

❧ IMPRINTED AT LONdon by john Awdeley, dwelling in little Britain street without Aldersgate. 1569. The xxx of April.