Alas poore men, why strive you to live long
to have more time and space to suffer wrong,
O wrong.
Our birth is blind and creeping, our life all woe and weeping.
Our death all paine and terror birth, life, death, what all but error.
Alas poore men.
O world nurse of desires, Foltresse of vaine attires.
What reason canst thou render why man should hold thee tender.
Alas poor men.
Thou pinst the pale cheek, Muses and Souldier, that refuses
no woundes for countries safetie, he onely thrives thats craftie.
Alas poore men.
On crutches vertue halts
vertue halts
haltes vertue haltes,
Whilest men most great in faultes,
in faultes,
most great in faultes
suffers best worth distrest,
suffers best worth distrest
with empty pride opprest
with empty pride
with emptie pride
with emptie pride opprest opprest.
Alas poore men.
O vertue yet at lenth rouze thy diviner strength
and make no musicke more no musicke more out fadde state thats deplore.
Then las poore men why.