I Am greatly weary Lord of this life of tedious pilgrimage. This life is a frail life; an vncertaine life, a painefull life, a defiled life, a life Ladie of euils, a Quéene of pride, full of miseries and errours, which is not to bee tearmed a life but death, in wich wee die euery moment with diuerse kinde of deathes, through sundry the defects of mutability. Whether therefore we which liue in this world, may call it a life which humors puffe vp, sorrowes abate, ayres infect, meates breed diseases, hunger makes leane, disports makes dissolute sadnes consumes, thought shortneth, riches maketh proude, pouerty debaseth, youth aduanceth, olde age maketh crooked, and sicknesse ouer commeth. And after all these euils furious death followeth, and moreouer appointeth such an end to all the ioyes of this miserable life, that when it ceaseth to be, it may be suposed neuer to haue béene. This death vitall and life mortal, although it bee sprinkled with these and other bitternesses, yet alas, how many doth it deceiue with false promises? And so this life as of it selfe, it is false and bitter, so also, it cannot be hidden and vnknowne to the blinde louers of it, yet notwithstanding, it soketh and vtterly drunkeneth an infinite number of fooles, with the golden cup it hath in hande. Happie they are, and they be but few, that forsake the familiarity of it, that despise the flitting ioyes of it, and reiect the fellowship therof, least that also they be compelled to perish with that perishing deceiuer.