Sacvyles olde age* fraunces that art the Iewell and renowne the onely flowre of phiscike in our dayes to hym that dothe requyre a skyll profowne or faythefullnes respectes or depe care wayes whom envye [that] her selffe that all thyngese wold deface off force is forste to yelde the cheffest prayse to the all sortes off scycknes gevethe place and at thy wyll the gryffe thereof alaies old age alone that hatefull huge dysease no medycine maye wthstond nor cure the payne no arte may once renewe the passed dayes off freshe grene yeres to ronne the race agayne So crepes it on vs wholly vnwares and dryes the iuyce wherewt the lyef dothe staye dullethe the mynde and wt a thownsand cares pecemeale the swete off lyff it dothe decaie bewty it reves and wt the comly shappe that part off man where memory dothe rest off all our strenghe it suckethe vp the sappe and queinttes the lyvelie heate wtin our brest febles [the] our force and breakes the vyttall brethe and wt the body revethe bloud and all saddethe the mynde and lastely to the deathe hales furthe our course to hast our ende wtall || This chaunge workes age and off our youghte so grene leves vs nought elles but only name and blaste as in marble tombes engraved is seen the vayne titles that sownd off glory paste      O envius fates and grudgynge at mans blysse whi on the ronnynge spyndell off our lief' the courser thread so slowlye whurled is well nere isponne and redy to the knyffe and lustie youthe so soune to rolle awaye that er we know what iewell we enioye man from hym selff is tourned a nother waye to droupe in woe that lyved even now in ioye yea er we canne perceiue we live and be and off our yovthe fele what a swette we haue broken and dooune we now shuld thynke we die in lyngerynge lief' wth on fote in the grave      The wyld swyfte hart canne lenghthen forth his race so manye yeres in leif' and lustines the chatterynge chowghe can leve so longe a space and nothynge faded off hys youthefulnes vnhappy man no soner hathe he past twyse tewnty yeres and that in heapes off gryefe but carkaslyke old age aprochethe fast wastynge the lust that shuld sustayne the lyffe || and not alone the bodyes lustines but off the mvnde the force eke he assaies dullynge the swyfte immortall lyvelines as perle and prynce off philosophie sayes but whie allege i suche autoryte the dolefull syght that daylie dothe ensue agge that is com and yought that now dothe die profe profe alas hathe made it all to true lo me how late this sackevile did you see flowrynge in youthe so gladsome and so green now chaunged an other man and now not he that erst appered when youthefulnes was seen now felethe he the burden off his yeres and now hys cowrse he bendes an other waie now failes his strenghe now drouppen all his cheres his chynne is whit now all his lockes ar graye      O bryttell world o short and false delyght o tender youthe swete yeres to soone that passe o happye times off lief' how soone how light haue ye ben [past] lost o me where is alas my freshe grene yeres where ar my youthfull daies wth stelynge steppes how haue ye crept aparte how ar ye fled ohey oho how decaies the lustie lief' that dothe so soon departe ||      So flete awaie the swyfte and ronnynge streames and so the cloude dothe flie before the wynde in secrete nyght so pas awaie the dreames that leaven nowght but wretched cares behinde So fades the rose that purple rede hathe died the lustie grene so withers it awaye so i alas while i in cradell byde in tender childhode while i sporte and plaie while learnynge i [a] desyre while i applye the latten tounge and while i reade the greke while I delight to learne Astronomie for swete knowlege while i searche and seke In mvses while i pas awaie the tyme off Troylus the double wo to here the knyghtes storie and off the reves ryme the myllers tale and eke off chaunteclere in Surreas verse while fyxed is my Ioye his englyshe vyrgell for to read and waie off Iust Aeneas and the fall off troye and wyates psalmes while that i synge and saie in court amyd the heavenly ladyes bryght to fede myne eyes whyle I somtyme desyre and wth the stroke that reaves me off my syght while sparclynge In my breste I feale the fyre in loue Somwhyle while I do sarve and sue in wo and playnt off my renewynge Sore || And off my [state] chaunce the hard estate berewe my true sarvyce that [shat] she estemes no more swete frendes while I embrace and to my loue Some lustie ditie while i do Indite wythein my stody while I mvse and move to the fraunces while I these verses wryte age creapethe on when sodenlye I fele my strengthe my lust my lyffe and all berefte that wonder thynckethe me in so shorte while to worke suche chaunge what space or tyme was lefte the tissue purple and the diamonde vaine Iewells and the farre fette thinges off fame how toochethe man wth washt and de tender hand' and wt what care lorde dothe he kepe the same and golden yeares more worthe then any gold more ryche then perle more pure then precious stone a Iewell off more force a thousand folde then all that in the world we compte vpon In wretched toyes is spent and o alas frutles is suffered to depart in vayne lo purple yet when it dothe were and pas as freshe wt new maye be restored agayne and Codrus thoughe he pyne vpon the gras to Crassus welthe maye trust yet to attayne yea Irus thoughe thou be that crassus was yet mayest thou hope Craessus to waxe agayne || but lustie yeres when they be once forlore when fled and gon is youthe so freshe and newe them neither Circes poisons maye restore nor yet the rodde off marcury renewe not Ioue him selffe thoughe he wold noryshe the wth nectar wyne off heavenly goddes aboue not all the hearbes that in the world be Thoughe Chiron wold on the there vertue prove not gyges rynge maye geve the once a hope aye to enioye [to] thye lustie youthe for past nor yet Sibilla wt her grislye soppe that to the dreadfull Cerberus she cast the golden howres so fast awaie theie flete alas and byd fare well for evermore ne playnt ne syghes ne teares ne no regrete may gayne retorne or ones there course restore the restles sonne when he hathe ronne his race and to west downe rold hym In his [ch] waine out off the este wt new and chearefull face bryght to the world he shewes him selffe agayne the wanderynge moone when quenched is her lyght throughe persant [off her] bryghtnes off her brothers spher<e> amyd the skyes aprochinge once the nyght in former shape as [sh] freshe she doth appeare || winter when he is worne and woxen olde to youthe agayne retournes wth lusty grene and after flakynge snowe and frosen colde Swete sprynge and flowres the swalow bryngethe in but our sommer as soone as it is past and off our age the cruell wynter come when his sterne wrathe hathe wt his blusterynge blast blowne Downe our flowers off lust and rent our bloome as sone as ben our temples overspred wth flakes off hore as whit as any snowe when that the warmthe and lyvely bloud is dead frosen wt cold and com is wynters woe then gon is hope . and then maye nevermore man see the sprynge off his youthes flowres agayne no sommer maye his parched grene restore but welke and were contynually in payne tyll deathe alone our swete and dolefull fooe ridder of smart increaser of our sore wth dredfull stroke geue end vnto our woe and slaye the corps that lived in deathe before these thinges when we beholde and in this state bothe luste and lief' forwasted when we see then waxe we wyse and then alas to late our dayes myspent and wepe and waylen wee then droppe the teares out off our wythered eyn and then In playnt is all our pleasure pyght || Then lothe we in our hart the wasted tyme off pleasant yovthe that once we held so lyght our sugred swete that did so late abound wth bittered [st.] taste is torned into gall eche thoughte off youthe geves then so depe a wounde as if the hart were thrilled therewthall lo then in vayne the flower off youthe mispent eche houre there off not well emplied we waile then then wth syghes bemone we and lament so rare a Iewell enioyed wtout avayle but now alas what space off lief' remaines what yeres ar lefte that I maye recompence my folies past wt frute off present paines my Idle youthe wt aged dyligence wrethelynge now hast thou rested overmoche now slepe no more what Sackevile now awake wt myght and mayne whyle that thy power is suche to frutefull vse do now thy selffe betake while that thou mayest and whyle as yet thou reste but in the porche off sad and wofull age while yet thy hore is grene and not increste and while the lust yet dothe not hole aswage      O pleasant tyme o youthe and youthfull toyes disport and mirthe farwell for ever more o false delyghtes o vayne and worldly Ioyes || vnto the world agayne I yow restore O tryffles past adieu I ye forsake my guyde my master o Chaucer alas farwell thy tales and the to others I betake to reade wt myrthe whom it delyghthe well Thou troylus my rymes giude and steer my pennes lodestarre and my masters same my dayes pleasure and my nyghtes fere farewell alas for I geve up the same farewell Surrea iewell off englishe verse mirrour off makynge and off poetrie thy loftye rymes vp to the heuens perce wryt in the skyes to the worldes eye cround is thy honour wt eternite thou syttest hyest in the house off fame the and thy golden verses honour I and on my kne fall when i here thy name but oh farewell my youthe is so fordonne that lusty rymes agre not wt my eld my lyffe it hathe a nother race to ronne and eke my penne another [way] worke to weld      O myghtty loue here yelde I vp to the the harte and hand that sarved the so longe the lusty penne that wonted for to be the swete complaynt off woffull louers [woffull] wronge || ladies off court farewell and court wtall the pleasaunt shynnynge [shyn] off your bewtyes lyght the glisterynge palaice and the goden halles vayne wrethed pompe dothe me nomore delyght Awaye pleasures away pasttyme and playe flatterynge delyghtes depart I ye reiecte vnto the hevenly kynge that lives for aye my selffe and all hence forthe wyll I derecte my pen shall paynt his honour and his prayse and wt my mouthe furthe wyll I spred his Fame and when this wretched erthly masse decaies my Soule in blysse shall magnyfy his name finis

* These verses were not discovered until 1986, when they turned up in an auction in London. The manuscript was acquired by McMaster University in Ontario, Canada [McMaster University Library, MS 93, ff. 7r-11v]. For a detailed discussion of the manuscript as well as exhaustive notes and glosses on the text, please see 'Sacvyles Olde Age' a Newly Discovered Poem by Thomas Sackville, by Rivkah Zim and M. B. Parkes. The Review of English Studies, Vol. 40, No. 157 (Feb., 1989), pp. 1-25.

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