A glass wherein you may behold
Each storm that stops our breath,
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould,
And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last
But for a little space,
And heavenly day, now night is past,
Doth shew his pleasant face;
So must we hope to see God's face
At last in heaven on high,
When we have changed this mortal place
For immortality.

This is not so bad, but it is enough. There are six stanzas more of it. I
transcribe yet another, that my reader may enjoy a smile in passing. He
is "moralizing" the aspects of morning:

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,
Both for his hue and for the rest,
The Devil resembleth plain;
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,
The Devil so must we overthrow,
With gunshot of belief.

So fares the wit, when it walks abroad to do its business without the
heart that should inspire it.