NEVER TOO LATE: THE PENITENT PALMER'S ODE by ROBERT GREENE

WHILOM in the winter's rage,
A palmer old and full of age
Sat and thought upon his youth,
With eyes' tears and heart's ruth;
Being all with cares y-blent,
When he thought on years mispent.
When his follies came to mind,
How fond love had made him blind,
And wrapt him in a field of woes,
Shadowèd with pleasure's shows,
Then he sigh'd, and said, "Alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!
I thought my mistress' hairs were gold,
And in their locks my heart I fold;
Her amber tresses were the sight
That wrappèd me in vain delight:
Her ivory front, her pretty chin
Were stales that drew me on to sin:
Her starry looks, her crystal eyes,
Brighter than the sun's arise,
Sparkling pleasing flames of fire,
Yok'd my thoughts and my desire,
That I gan cry, ere I blin,
'O, her eyes are paths to sin!'
Her face was fair, her breath was sweet,
All her looks for love were meet;
But love is folly, this I know,
And beauty fadeth like to snow.
O, why should man delight in pride,
Whose blossom like a dew doth glide!
When these supposes touch'd my thought,
That world was vain and beauty nought,
I gan sigh, and say, 'Alas,
Man is sin, and flesh is grass!'"

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