Hark, how the birds do sing, 
and woods do ring. 
All creatures have their joy: and man hath his. 
Yet if we rightly measure, 
Man's joy and pleasure 
Rather hereafter, than in present, is. 

To this life things of sense 
Make their pretense: 
In th'other Angels have a right by birth: 
Man ties them both alone, 
And makes them one, 
With th'one hand touching heav'n, with th'other earth. 

In soul he mounts and flies, 
In flesh he dies. 
He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round, 
But trimm'd with curious lace 
And should take place 
After the trimming, not the stuff and ground. 

Not that he may not here 
Taste of the cheer, 
But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head, 
So must he sip and think 
Of better drink 
He may attain to, after he is dead. 

But as his joys are double, 
So is his trouble. 
He hath two winters, other things but one: 
Both frosts and thoughts do nip, 
And bite his lip; 
And he of all things fears two deaths alone. 

Yet ev'n the greatest griefs 
May be reliefs, 
Could he but take them right, and in their ways. 
Happy is he, whose heart 
Hath found the art 
To turn his double pains to double praise.