O Lord, my soul doth testify,
That I have spent my life in vain;
Ah! make a wand’ring sheep of me,
And bring me to thy flock again.
Think’st thou there is no count to crave,
Of all these gifts in thee was planted.
I gave thee beauty ’bove the lave,
A pregnant wit thou never wanted.
Master, quoth she, it must be granted,
My sins is great give me contrition: