To whom dust is the period,
Who am not sure to farme this very houre?
For how know I the latest sand
In my fraile glasse of life, doth not now fall?
And while I thus astonisht stand
I but prepare for my own funerall?
Death doth with man no order keepe:
It reckons not by the expence of yeares,
But makes the Queene and beggar weepe,
And nere distinguishes betweene their teares.