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¹ Is not the life off ma vpon earth a very batayll? Are not his dayes, like the dayes of an hyred seruaunte?² For like as a bonde seruaunt desyreth the shadowe, and as an hyrelinge wolde fayne haue an ende of his worke:³ Euen so haue I laboured whole monethes longe (but in vayne) and many a carefull night haue I tolde.⁴ When I layed me downe to slepe, I sayde: O when shal I ryse? Agayne, I longed sore for the night. Thus am I full off sorowe, till it be darcke.⁵ My flesh is clothed with wormes, fylthinesse and dust: my skynne is wythered, and crompled together:⁶ my dayes passe ouer more spedely, the a weeuer can weeue out his webbe, and are gone, or I am awarre.

⁷ O remembre, that my life is but a wynde, ad that myne eye shal nomore se the pleasures⁸ therof yee and that none other mans eye shall se me eny more. For yf thou fasten thine eyes vpon me, I come to naught like⁹ as a cloude is cosumed and vanyshed awaye, euen so he that goeth downe to hell, commeth nomore vp,¹⁰ ner turneth agayne in to his house, nether shall his place knowe him eny more.¹¹ Therfore I will not spare my mouth, but will speake in the trouble of my sprete, in ye bytternesse of my mynde will I talke.¹² Am I a see or a whalfysh, that thou kepest me so in preson?¹³ When I thynke: my bedd shall comforte me, I shall haue some refresshinge by talkynge with myself vpon my couche:¹⁴ The troublest thou me with dreames, ad makest me so afrayed thorow visions,¹⁵ that my soule wyssheth rather to be hanged, and my bones to be deed.¹⁶ I can se no remedy, I shall lyue nomore: O spare me then, for my dayes are but vayne

¹⁷ What is man, that thou hast him in soch reputacion, and settest so moch by him?¹⁸ Thou takest diligent care for him, and sodely doest thou trye him.¹⁹ Why goest thou not fro me, ner lettest me alone, so longe till I swalow downe my spetle?²⁰ I haue offended, what shal I do vnto ye, O thou preseruer off men? Why hast thou made me to stonde in thy waye, and am so heuy a burden vnto myself?²¹ Why doest thou not forgeue me my synne? Wherfore takest thou not awaye my wickednesse? Beholde, now must I slepe in the dust: and yff thou sekest me tomorow in the mornynge, I shalbe gone.