To grieve of death before it knows to come
Is lack of chance for sin a soul to take.
Because the dread of loss can leave one numb
Though calls our faults are prone err make.
Having nothing on which to base our dares,
The doom befalls those who, amid fear, live.
If such merchant ne’er sold hands wrought his wares,
Then for profit fruits of labor ne’er give.
Pointless it is to not amount forwards,
To fear the end and not live through the start.
In speech in rhymes you fool renege your words,
Till from this world your lies disgrace; depart.
And when your death its sting comes back for you,
Perhaps the fear and fire of hell will change the view.