I trod ye yearth and knewe it was my tombe
And now I die, and now I was but made
My glasse is full and now my glasse is runne
And now I liue and now my lief is donne.
Answer.
Thy prime of youth is frozen wth thy faultes
Thy feaste of Joy is finisht wth thy fall.
Thy cropp of corne is tares a vayling naughtes
Thy good god knowes thy hope, thy happ and all.
Short were thy daies and shadow was thy sonne
T'obscure thy light vnluckely begunne.
Time trieth truth and truth, hath treason tript
