With eyes, teares, and hart's ruth,
Beeing all with cares yblent,
When he thought on yeeres mispent,
When his follies came to minde,
How fond love had made him blinde,
And wrapt him in a fielde of woes,
Shadowed with pleasures shoes,
Then he sighed, and sayd, alas!
Man is sinne, and flesh is grasse.
I thought my mistres hairs were gold,