Alas, hardpressed the whirling orbs 
And swift Titan hie fleeting hours, 
And cleave delights with woe avid 
Death might - fast on us, she strides!

Whilst I, onward, mark more the deep 
Shadow of my wrongs that prey untold 
On a heart cowed now by constant woe, 
And with tears, my youthful faults I rue.

Power, delights, wealth, such ado, 
Tho ne'er for naught, 'tis ill they work,
For our desire they turn astray 
From its rightful bliss (God we name).

Brief gains! O blissful a hundredfold
Who knows quick these shadows' true shape!