When senses, which thy soldiers are

When senses, which thy soldiers are,

We arm against thee, and they fight for sin,

When want, sent but to tame, doth war

And work despair a breach to enter in,

When plenty, God's image and seal,

Makes us idolatrous,

And love it, not him, whom it should reveal,

When we are moved to seem religious

Only to vent wit, Lord deliver us.