Sorrie I am, my God, sorrie I am,

That my offences course it in a ring.

My thoughts are working like a busie flame,

Untill their cockatrice they hatch and bring:

And when they once have perfected their draughts,

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,

Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.

They vent the wares, and passe them with their faults,

And by their breathing ventilate the ill.

But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:

My hands do joyn to finish the inventions.

My hands do joyn to finish the inventions:

And so my sinnes ascend three stories high,

As Babel grew, before there were dissentions.

Yet ill deeds loyter not: for they supplie

New thoughts of sinning: wherefore, to my shame,

Sorrie I am, my God, sorrie I am.