Upon The Image Of Death

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Before my face the picture hangs
  That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs
  That shortly I am like to find;
But yet, alas, full little I
  Do think hereon that I must die.

I often look upon a face
  Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place
  Where eyes and nose had sometimes been;
I see the bones across that lie,
  Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,
  That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence eke that saith
  Remember, man, that thou art dust!
But yet, alas, but seldom I
  Do think indeed that I must die.

Continually at my bed's head
  A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell
That I ere morning may be dead,
  Though now I feel myself full well ;
But yet, alas, for all this, I
  Have little mind that I must die.

The gown which I do use to wear,
  The knife wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
  Which is my only usual seat,-
All these do tell me I must die,
  And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turned to clay,
  And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,
  And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

Not Solomon for all his wit,
  Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
No king nor person ever yet
  Could 'scape but death laid him along;
Wherefore I know that I must die,
  And yet my life amend not I.

Though all the East did quake to hear
  Of Alexander's dreadful name,
And all the West did likewise fear
  To hear of Julius Caesar's fame,
Yet both by death in dust now lie;
  Who then can 'scape but he must die?

If none can 'scape death's dreadful dart,
  If rich and poor his beck obey,
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
  Then I to 'scape shall have no way.
Oh, grant me grace, O God, that I
  My life may mend, sith I must die.

© Robert Southwell