What ordeyned God to be terestyall,
Without recours to the erth of nature?
Who to lyue euer may himselfe assure?
What is it to trust on mutabilyte,
Sith that in this world nothing may indure?
For now am I gone, that late was in prosperyte:
To presume thervppon, it is but a vanyte,
Not certayne, but as a chery fayre full of wo:
Reygned not I of late in greate felycite?
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!