This world a hunting is

This world a hunting is,

The prey poor man,

The Nimrod fierce is death.

His speedy greyhounds are

Lust, sickness, envy, care,

Strife that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us

While we breathe.

Now if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,

Old age with stealing pace

Casts up his nets,

and there we panting die.