Come down and redeem us from virtue,/ Our Lady of Pain.

Change in a trice. The lilies and languors of virtue. For the raptures and roses of vice;

To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it; Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

This I ever held worse that all certitude, To know not what the worst ahead might be.

Time turns the old days to derision, our loves into corpses or wives; and marriage and death and division make barren our lives.