Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here I am in hell.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers' meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.
June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
To stand up straight and tread the turning mill, To lie flat and know nothing and be still, Are the two trades of man; and which is worse I know not, but I know that both are ill.
