Like to the thund'ring tone of unspoke speeches,
Or like a lobster clad in logick breeches,
Or like the gray freeze of a crimson cat,
Or like a moon-calf in a slipshoo hat,
Or like a shadow when the sunne is gone,
Or like a thought that neere was thought upon,
Even such is man, who never was begoten
Untill his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery touchstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crablouse with his bagge and baggage,
Or like th' abortive issue of a fizle,
Or like the bagge-pudding of a plowmans whistle,
Or like the foure square circle of a ring,
Or like the singing of hey downe a ding,
Even such is man, who, breathles without doubt,
Spake to smal purpose when his tongue was out.

Like to the greene fresh fading withered rose,
Or like to rime or verse that runs in prose,
Or like the humbles of a tinder-box,
Or like a man that's sound, yet hath the poxe,
Or like a hobnaile coyn'd in single pence,
Or like the present preterperfect tense,
Even such is man, who dy'd and then did laffe
To see such strange lines writ on 's Epitaph.