A Meditation Upon Death Poem by Thomas Cranley

Nothing more wisht then wealth, yet that must leave us
Nothing more sweete then love, that lasts not ever.
Nothing more kinde then friends, yet they'l deceive us.
Nothing more fast then wedlocke, yet they sever.
The world must end, all things away must fly,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
More honours may be got, but they'l away.
More beauty may be had, but twill not last.
More wealth may be obtain'd, but twill decay.
More joyes may follow, but those soone are past.
For long continuance tis in vaine to try,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
Sure love must dy though rooted in the heart.
Sure tis, that all things earthly are unstable.
Sure friends, are pure friends, yet such friends must part
Sure tis, that all things here are variable.
Nor two, nor one may scape, nor thou, nor I,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
Then let the rich, no longer covet wealth.
Then let the proud, vaile his ambitious thought.
Then let the sound not glory in his health.
Then let all dy, since all must come to nought.
The elder fish, as well as younger fry,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
Death tooke away King Herod in his pride.
Death spar'd not Hercules for all his strength.
Death strooke great Alexander, that he di'd.
Death long spar'd Adam, yet he di'd at length.
The begger, and the King, the low, the high,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
For Scepters, Crownes, Emperiall Diadems,
For all the beauties that on Earth doe live,
For pleasures, treasures, jewels, costly jems,
For all the glories that the world can give.
She will not spare her dart, but still replie.
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
All from the highest to the low'st degree.
All Nations, People, Kingdomes, Countries, Lands,
All in the Earth, or Aire, or Sea, that be,
All, all must yeeld to her all conquering hands.
She wounds them all, with an impartiall eye,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
Must all then dy, then all expect their death.
Must' all things vanish, Sunne, and Moone, and Starres?
Must every living creature yeeld his breath?
Must all things end, our joyes, delights, and cares?
Yes all with an united voice doe cry,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.
Dy let us then, but let us dy in peace,
Dy to our sinnes, that dying we may live
Dy to the world, that grace may more increase
Dy here to live with him that life doth give.
Die we must needs, let wealth, and pleasure ly,
Nothing more sure then death, for all must dy.