O Lord, how vain are all our frail delights;
how mix'd with sour the sweet of our desire;
how subject oft to Fortune's subtle slights;
how soon consum'd like snow against the fire.
Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain,
o lord, grant me that I may them disdain.

How fair in show where need doth force to wish;
how much they loathe when heart hath them at will;
how things possess'd do seem not worth a rish (rush),
where greedy minds for more do covet still.
Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain,
O lord, grant me that I may them disdain.

What prince so great as doth not seem to want;
what man so rich but still doth covet more;
to whom so large was ever Fortune's grant
as for to have a quiet mind in store.
Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain
o Lord, grant me that I may them disdain.