My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told;
My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent and yet I am not old;
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in the womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and yet my life is done.