Howe moche thou oughtest this folysshe lust to fle
The soule it damneth, and drowneth depe in hell
The wyt it wastyth, and confoundeth the mynde
It causeth man his londe and good to sell
And if that he none other mene can fynde
To rob and stele he oft tyme is inclyned
Besyde all these this fowle lust is so vyle
That with fowle sauour it shall thy body fele
Thoughe of lewde lust the ioy be short and small
And thoughe the pleasour therof be soon ouer past