Change Common To All.

Fortune did never favour one
Fully, without exception;
Though free she be, there's something yet
Still wanting to her favourite.

Many we are, and yet but few possess
Those fields of everlasting happiness.

My many cares and much distress
Has made me like a wilderness;
Or, discompos'd, I'm like a rude
And all confused multitude:
Out of my comely manners worn,
And, as in means, in mind all torn.

Let's be jocund while we may,
All things have an ending day;
And when once the work is done,
Fates revolve no flax they've spun.

All things o'er-ruled are here by chance:
The greatest man's inheritance,
Where'er the lucky lot doth fall,
Serves but for place of burial.

Shift now has cast his clothes: got all things new;
Save but his hat, and that he cannot mew.