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THE
MIRROR
OF
Man’s Misery.
I Have such dread when I shall die,
Not knowing how nor in what place,
Thro course of kind he comes to me.
Into his arms would me embrace,
He spares not the rich, for their riches,
Nor on the poor hath he pity,
This causes me to say alas!
And have a dread when I should die.
When I lay sick, on my death, bed,
And all my life brought to an end;
Then all the tins that e'er I did,
Will all come fresh into my mind,
Crying we are all works of thine,
And now we are to go with thee,
To bear witness what thou hast done.
Which makes me dread when I shall die.
Then grouth of grief and great despair,
