John Dowland — What if a day or a month or a year?

What if a day, or a month, or a yeare Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings? Cannot a chance of a night or an howre Crosse thy desires with as many sad tormentings? Fortune, honor, beauty, youth Are but blossoms dying; Wanton pleasure, doating love Are but shadowes flying All our joyes are but toyes Idle thoughts deceiving; None have power of an howre In their lives bereaving Earthes but a point to the world, and a man Is but a point to the worlds compared centure: Shall then a point of a point be so vaine As to triumph in a seely points adventure? All is hassard that we have There is nothing biding; Dayes of pleasure are like streames Through faire meadowes gliding Weale and woe, time doth goe Time is ever turning: Secret fates guide our states Both in mirth and mourning