The throes of death do bear contempt,
From the breast of ev’ry man,
Nearly doth he taste,
Else he understand.
When seen but from fair distance
The blackness drowns all light,
Or rather blackness nay it was,
When seen with eyes aright.
Yet in his breast man needs a cower,
From eyes so far and cold,
Lest digest he the second fruit,
These mysteries unfold.
Still very this hour
Doth terry not ever,
Whence all tales be told;
Cold becomes bright forever.