O meat for worms, O dew soon melted, O clot of bryttle clay 

Why doest thou trust still to possess, that which will soon decay.



For as the leaf which with the wind, is dryin' to and fro

So shall thy pride and gorgeous fare, be put away also

Do sooner trust the letters written, upon melting ice


Then flattering chance of worldly gifts, unconstant as the dice.



O meat for worms, O dew soon melted, O clot of bryttle clay

Why doest thou trust still to possess, that which will soon decay.



In how short space doth slip away, these worldly pleasures all

Like shadows or such vanities, which soon do slide and fall

Why does the world both carke and care, for glory that is vain

Whose wealth departs for evermore, and will not come again.



O meat for worms, O dew soon melted, O clot of bryttle clay

Why doest thou trust still to possess, that which will soon decay.