Grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, sith I must die. - Robert Southwell

Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs,
That shortly I am like to find:
But yet, alas! full little I
Do think hereon that I must die.

In Aman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass and prize the flowers of May,
Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away.

My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast. Enough I reckon wealth;
A mean the surest lot,
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.