Come, sorrow, come, come, 
Sweet scale 
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.