Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field; <br />Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay: <br />Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield, <br />And princes pass, as grass doth fade away. <br /> <br />Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave, <br />Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy: <br />Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive, <br />And yet no time can make a suer stay. <br /> <br />Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice, <br />Nor wish can win that will desires to see: <br />Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice, <br />Nor study tell what afterward shall be. <br /> <br />Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age, <br />Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take: <br />Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage <br />Will shun the show that all doth mar and make. <br /> <br />Ay me, ay me, come, Time, shear on and shake thy hay, <br />It is no boot to balk thy bitter blows: <br />Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, come, Time, take everything away, <br />For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows.<br /><br />Anonymous Americas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ay-me-ay-me-i-sigh-the-scythe-a-field/
