A comparison of the life of Man,  
Concerning how fickle his estate doth stand,  
Flourishing like a Tree, or Vine, or dainty flower,  
Or like a ship, or rain, that's turned each hour,  
To the tune of Sir Andrew Barton.  


VENICE.  
LONDON.  
BRISTOL.   

AS I lay musing all alone,  
Great store of things I thought upon,  
And specially of man's estate,  
And how he's subject unto fate.   

First I'll compare him to a tree,  
Which you sometimes all green may see,  
But suddenly his leaves do fall  
That he was beautified withal.   

The Tree likewise is known by's fruit  
Better than by his fine green suit,  
He may show comely to the eye,  
Yet his fruit may taste bitterly.   

So men sometimes make a fair show,  
All fresh and green they seem to grow,  
But when the winter of grief and thrall  
Doth on them seize, their green leaves fall.   

But for the difference of men's fruit,  
I must indeed be something mute,  
But those that grow like Cedars tall  
Yield little fruit or none at all.   

Yet do they flourish fresh and green,  
Much like the pleasant summer Queen▪  
They are bedecked with fragrant flowers,  
And they do dwell in stately Towers.   

But as the Tree is great and tall,  
The great and mightier is his fall:  
And as he falls, so doth he lie,  
Until the builder him apply.   

What though a man have store of wealth,  
It cannot him assure of health,  
By his fruits he must sure be tried,  
Either condemned or justified.   

Again, a man is like a Vine,  
That from the earth doth fluorish fine,  
Adorned with nature's ornament,  
With store of Grapes to give content.   

But with a knife, or such a thing,  
The Vine is soon set a bleeding,  
And then those Grapes will soon decay,  
And piningly will waist away.   

Even so stands the life of man,  
If that his blood from him be drawn,  
Then suddenly his life doth yield,  
And unto death he is compelled.   

Man flourisheth even like a flower,  
Which life's and dies within an hours,  
He grows perhaps until his prime,  
Or he may dye in's budding time.   

He may chance live till he is old,  
And bide the brunt of Winter's cold,  
But then hée'l lose the smell and show,  
And will no more be worth the view.   

So many men die in their prime,  
And some die in their budding time:  
But he that life's the longest life,  
Shall find but sorrow, care, and strife.   

Man's life is like a ship o'th' Seas,  
Which is sometimes as Fortune please,  
Even as proud Boreas' blasts do blow.   

When Winds are still and weather's fair,  
Then Mariners are free from care;  
But when as storms make dark the sky,  
Then must each man his labour ply.    

The second part  
To the same tune.  
 
 

SO is't with man the self same case,  
His life's a ship that seas doth trace,  
And oft is like to go to wrack  
When winds and storms do tackle crack.   

We men when sickness doth assail  
Our bodies, and makes us look pale,  
Then would we do all things we may,  
So that our health we might enjoy.   

But when the Fates on us do smile,  
Like Sailors we forget our toil.  
We hang out colours for a show,  
But take them in when storms do grow.   

I may compare a man again  
Even like unto a turning rain,  
That changeth even as doth the wind,  
Indeed so is man's fickle mind.   

The mind of man doth often change,  
he's apt with every gale to range,  
He standeth tottering to and fro,  
Even as his foolish fancies go.   

Again I may man's Life compare  
Like to a bird that flies i'th' air,  
And suddenly she sees a bait,  
Which is to take her with deceit.   

The bird no sooner is betrayed,  
But comes me him that the bait laid,  
And having taken her in his Net,  
She dies, and he for more doth bait.   

Even so is man by running caught,  
When as thereof he hath no thought,  
He soareth high and fears no fail,  
Yet then he's in most danger of all.   

Make trial of this any one,  
And you shall find that I have shown  
A prospect where you may behold  
The difference in this earthy mould.   

This life is fickle, frail, and vain,  
Seek everlasting life to gain.  
All worldly treasures soon decay,  
And mortal man returns to clay.   

Before thou diest bid pride adieu,  
Which doth so often shape thee new,  
Call out for mercy with loud voice,  
And let her be thy only choice.   

If thou have lived in gluttony,  
Forgetting quite that thou shalt dye,  
Then quickly charity embrace,  
That she may plead well in thy case.   

If thou by covetousness have lived,  
And hast thy neighbours poor deceived,  
Then suddenly restored again,  
For fear thou feel hell's burning pain.   

Perchance in wrath thou hast shed blood,  
Which wrath should always be withstood,  
Yet arm thee with a patiented heart,  
And never more act such a part.   

If thou hast envied at thy brother,  
Repent with speed, that black sin smother,  
And let true love be thy delight,  
Thou mayst departed with life this night.   

If thou hast slothful been, and lewd,  
Neglecting God's most holy word,  
Apply thyself most speedily,  
Redeem thy time spent idly.   

If thou lascivious hast been given;  
Dóe so no more, but pray to heaven,  
That hateful sin God may forgive,  
Chastise thyself, repent, and grieve.   

Thus to conclude, let me entreat  
All those that hear what I relate,  
That they seek heaven's grace to find,  
And always hear an upright mind.    
R.C.  
FINIS.   

Printed at London for Francis Coules