From the soft Bed, O youthful Maid, Whereon thy Limbs now lie, Permission ever to arise, The cruel Fates deny:
For first shall Death thy lifeless Limbs Subdue without Remorse, And his fell Scythe shall to the Grave Consign thy breathless Corse.
_Come unto me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you Rest._
Hither advance, ye weary Throng, And quick my Steps attend, Who under Loads of so great Weight, With weary Shoulders bend.
Traffic and Gain your anxious Thoughts Did long enough possess, Your Breasts the Cares which these produce No longer shall distress.
_In the Sweat of thy Face shalt thou eat Bread._
Bread for thyself, by Labour great, Thou shalt thyself obtain; And from the Ground, without great Toil, No Sustenance shalt gain.
After long Use of Things below, And num’rous Labours past, Pale Death to all thy Cares and Toils Shall put an End at last.
_Man that is born of a Woman, is of few Days, and full of Trouble. He cometh forth like a Flower, and is cut down: He fleeth also as a Shadow, and continueth not._
Man, who conceiv’d in the dark Womb, Into the World is brought, Is born to Times with Misery, And various Evil fraught.
And as the Flow’r soon fades and dies, However fair it be, So sinks he also to the Grave, And like a Shade does flee.
_When a strong Man armed keepeth his Palace, his Goods are in Peace. But when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his Armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his Spoils._
Undaunted and secure in Arms, While Strength and Life remain, The brave his Mansions, and his Wealth In Safety shall maintain.
But Death with greater Force shall wage Against him War ere long, And, for the Grave, shall cause him quit His Post, no longer strong.
_For what is a Man profited, if he shall gain the whole World, and lose his own Soul?_
If the destructive Art of Dice Could Wealth immense insure, Or Man the World by Dice could gain, What Good would it procure?
His Soul this Practice will destroy, Entangled in its Snare, A Loss which no Art, Fraud, or Chance, Is able to repair.
_And be not drunk with Wine, wherein is Excess._
With Wine’s Excess your Souls to drench, Ye mortal Throng, forbear; For Luxury of every Kind, And raging Lust is there.