WIN.  Pleaseth your honour, all he says is false. 
For my own part, I love good husbandry,
But hate dishonourable covetise. 
Youth ne’er aspires to virtue’s perfect growth,
Till the wild oats be sown; and so the earth,
Until his weeds be rotted by my frosts
Is not for any seed or tillage fit. 
He must be purged that hath surfeited: 
The fields have surfeited with summer fruits;
They must be purg’d, made poor, oppress’d with snow,
Ere they recover their decayed pride. 
For overbarring of the streams with ice,
Who locks not poison from his children’s taste? 
When Winter reigns, the water is so cold,
That it is poison, present death, to those
That wash or bathe their limbs in his cold streams. 
The slipp’rier that ways are under us,
The better it makes us to heed our steps,
And look, ere we presume too rashly on. 
If that my sons have misbehav’d themselves,
A God’s name, let them answer’t ’fore my lord.

AUT.  Now, I beseech your honour it may be so.

SUM.  With all my heart.  Vertumnus, go for them.

WILL SUM.  This same Harry Baker[127] is such a necessary fellow to go on errands as you shall not find in a country.  It is pity but he should have another silver arrow, if it be but for crossing the stage with his cap on.

SUM.  To weary out the time, until they come,
Sing me some doleful ditty to the lute,
That may complain my near-approaching death.

The Song.

Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss;
This world uncertain is. 
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys. 
None from his darts can fly: 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth;
Gold cannot buy you health. 
Physic himself must fade: 
All things to end are made. 
The plague full swift goes by. 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour: 
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair. 
Dust hath clos’d Helen’s eye. 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops into the grave: 
Worms feed on Hector brave. 
Swords may not fight with fate: 
Earth still holds ope her gate. 
Come, come, the hells do cry. 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death’s bitterness. 
Hell’s executioner
Hath no ears to hear,
What vain art can reply. 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny: 
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player’s stage. 
Mount we unto the sky. 
I am sick, I must die. 
         Lord, have mercy on us_!

SUM.  Beshrew me, but thy song hath moved me.