| Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, | |
| Though foolishly he lost the same, | |
| Decaying more and more, | |
| Till he became | |
| Most poore: | 5 |
| With thee | |
| O let me rise | |
| As larks, harmoniously, | |
| And sing this day thy victories: | |
| Then shall the fall further the flight in me. | 10 |
| My tender age in sorrow did beginne | |
| And still with sicknesses and shame. | |
| Thou didst so punish sinne, | |
| That I became | |
| Most thinne. | 15 |
| With thee | |
| Let me combine, | |
| And feel thy victorie: | |
| For, if I imp my wing on thine, | |
| Affliction shall advance the flight in me. | 20 |