Come, sorrow, come, come,
By the which we ascend
We ascend to the heavenly place,
Where Virtue sitteth smiling
To see how some look pale
With fear to behold
With fear to behold thy ill-favored face,
Vain shows their sense beguiling.
For mirth hath no assurance
Nor warranty of durance.
Hence, pleasures, fly, sweet bait,
On the which they may justly be said to be fools
That surfeit by much tasting;
Like thieves you lie in wait,
Most subtly how to prepare silly souls
For sorrows everlasting.
Wise griefs have joyful turnings,
Nice pleasures end in mournings.
Submitted by Ross Klatte
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Text added to the website: 2014-07-10.
Last modified: 2014-07-10 16:31:38
Line count: 19
Word count: 99
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