〈…〉 the Right Honourable, The Lord Mayor of the famous City of LONDON, the Honourable the Sheriffs, Aldermen, Common Council, and all Worthy Citizens of the same, the Humble Address of Anthony Wildgoos Workman-Printer: IN DIVINE MEDITATIONS ON DEATH, Made upon these Nine WORDS, Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.  
 

Nothing MOre wished than Wealth, yet that must leave us;  
Nothing More sweet than Love, that lasts not ever:  
NothingMore dear than Friends, yet they'll deceive us;  
Nothing More fast than Wedlock, yet they sever.  
The World must end, all things away must fly:  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

More Strength may be obtained, but 'twill decay;  
More Beauty may be had, but 'twill not last:  
More Honour may be got, but 'twill away;  
More Joys may follow, but these soon are past.  
For long continuance, it's in vain to try.  
You, and you, and you, and all must Die.   

Sure Love must Die, though rooted in the Heart;  
Sure 'Tis, that all things earthly are unstable:  
Sure Friends are pure friends, yet such friends must part;  
Sure 'Tis, that all things (here) are variable.  
Not two nor one may scape; nor thou, nor I;  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

Then Let the Rich no longer covet Wealth;  
Then Let the Proud vail his ambitious Thought;  
Then Let the Sound not glory in his Health:  
Then Let all yield, since all must come to nought.  
For long Continuance, it's vain to try:  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

Death Took away King Herod in his Pride,  
Death Spared not Hercules for all his strength;  
Death Struck Great Alexander that he died;  
Death Long spared Adam, yet he died at length.  
The Beggar and the King, the Low, the High;  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

For Sceptres, Crowns, Imperial Diadems;  
For All the Beauties that on Earth do live:  
For Pleasures, Treasures, Jewels, costly Gems;  
For All the Glory that the World can give,  
Death will not spare his Dart, but still reply,  
You, and you, and you, and all must Die.   

All From the highest, to the lowest Degree;  
All Nations, People, Kingdoms, Countries, Lands,  
All In the Earth, or Air, or Sea, that be,  
All Must yield up to his all-conquering Hands:  
He wounds them all with an Impartial Eye:  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

Must All than Die; then all must think on Death:  
Must All things vanish? Sun, and Moon, and Stars?  
Must Every single Creature yield his Breath?  
Must All things cease, our Joys, Delights, our Cares?  
Yes, All with an united voice do cry,  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

Die Let us then, but let us Die in peace;  
Die To our Sins, that dying we may live:  
Die To the World, that Grace may more increase;  
Die Here, to live with him that life doth give,  
Die, die we must; let Wealth and Pleasures lie,  
Nothing more sure than Death, for all must Die.   

Man the first Garden-Flower in Eden faded;  
Man the first Building, the first Babel proved;  
Man the first raised, was Man the first degraded;  
Man was first shaken, that might have lived unmoved.  
Death's breath o'er Flowers and Towers hath like Commanding;  
His Hand pulled down, Man raised, shook Man firm-standing.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for Anthony Wildgoos, dwelling within Cripplegate, near Lamb's Chapel Gate.