The dragon Death, that all devours; 2 Though all this world thou did posseid,3 Though thou be tackled never so sure, Cum tu in cinerem reverteris. 2 Mates. (William Dunbar.) 3 Possess. 1507. THAT in health was and gladness, ness, And feebled with infirmity; Timor mortis conturbat me. Our pleasure here is all vainglory, The flesh is brittle, the Fiend is sly, The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sorry, Now dancing merry, now like to die; No state in earth here stands sicker;' So waves this world's vanity; Timor mortis conturbat me. 1 Sure. Unto the death goes all estates, He takes the knights into the field, Timor mortis conturbat me. That strong unmerciful tyrand, Takes, on the mother's breast soukand, The babe, full of benignity; Timor mortis conturbat me. He takes the champion in the stour,2 The captain closed in the tower, The lady in bower, full of beauty; He spares no lord for his puissance, Art magicians, and astrologers, 2 Battle. In medecine the most practicians, Themselves from death may not supplie; 3 I see that makers, among the lave, Play here their pageants, syne go to grave; Spared is not their faculty; Timor mortis conturbat me. * Since he has all my brethren ta'en, Since for the death remeid is none, Timor mortis conturbat me. (William Dunbar.) 3 Poets. ON SIR THOMAS WYATT. YATT resteth here, that quick could never rest; Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast; A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame, A visage stern, and mild, where both did grow, A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme, That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit; A mark, the which, unperfected for time, Some may approach, but never none shall hit. |