Amende to-day and slack not,
Deythe cometh and warneth not,
Tyme passeth and speketh not.

Amende to-day and slack not,
Deythe cometh and warneth not,
Tyme passeth and speketh not.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no read more

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the
night cometh, when no man can work.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your
wrath: Neither give place to read more

Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your
wrath: Neither give place to the devil.

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at Him is our soul;
Death read more

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at Him is our soul;
Death the horizon, when our sun is set,
Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To read more

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this!

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
read more

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
- Unattributed Author,