To His Son Three things there be that prosper up apace And flourish whilst they grow asunder far; But on a day, they meet all in one place, And when they meet they one another mar: And they be these -the wood, the weed, the wag. The wood is that which makes the gallows tree; The weed is that which strings the hangman's bag; The wag, my pretty knave, betokeneth thee. Mark well, dear boy, whilst these assemble not, Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild; But when they meet, it makes the timber rot, It frets the halter, and it chokes the child. Then bless thee, and beware, and let us pray We part not with thee at this meeting day.
Even Such is Time Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days. But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.