The Queen's Men

O Lord, how vain are all our frail delights; how mix'd with sour the sweet of our desire; how subject oft to Fortune's subtle slights; how soon consum'd like snow against the fire. Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain, o lord, grant me that I may them disdain. How fair in show where need doth force to wish; how much they loathe when heart hath them at will; how things possess'd do seem not worth a rish (rush), where greedy minds for more do covet still. Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain, O lord, grant me that I may them disdain. What prince so great as doth not seem to want; what man so rich but still doth covet more; to whom so large was ever Fortune's grant as for to have a quiet mind in store. Sith in this life our pleasures all be vain o Lord, grant me that I may them disdain.