Vayne loves, avaunt! infamous is your pleasure,
Your joye deceite;
Your jewells jestes, and worthles trash your treasure,
Fooles' common baite.
Your pallace is a prison that allureth
To sweete mishapp, and rest that payne procureth.

Your garden, greif hedgd in with thornes of envye
And stakes of strife;
Your allies, errour gravelled with jelosye
And cares of life;
Your bancks, are seates enwrapt with shades of sadnes
Your arbours, breed rough fittes of raging madnes.

Your bedds, are sowen with seedes of all iniquitye
And poysening weedes,
Whose stalkes evill thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanitye,
Whose fruite misdeedes;
Whose sapp is synn, whose force and operacion,
To banish grace and worke the soule's damnation.

Your trees are dismall plants of pyning corrosives,
Whose root is ruth,
Whose bark is bale, whose tymber stubborne phantasies,
Whose pith untruthe;
On which in liew of birdes whose voyce deliteth,
Of guilty conscience screching note affrighteth.

Your coolest sommer gales are scalding syghinges,
Your shoures are teares;
Your sweetest smell the stench of synnfull livinge,
Your favoures feares;
Your gardener Satan, all you reape is misery,
Your gayne remorse and losse of all felicitye.