The Tropics in New York

Lord, who created man in wealth and sore

Though foolishly he lost the fame,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became,

Most poore.

With thee 

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories

Then shall the fall further the slight in me

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

And still with ficknesses and shame

Thou did`nt to punish finne,

That I became

Most thinne

With thee 

Let me combine,

And feel this day thy victories

For, if I imp my wing on shine 

Affliction shall advance the slight in me.