Classic Poem

Why is the world beloved, that fals is and vein,
Sithen that hise welthes ben uncertein?

Also soone slideth his power away
As doith a brokil pot that freish is and gay.

Truste ye rather to letters writen in th'is
Than to this wretched world, that full of sinne is.

It is fals in his beheste and right disceiveable;
It hath begiled manye men, it is so unstable.

It is rather to beleve the waveringe wind
Than the chaungeable world, that maketh men so blind.

Whether thou slepe othere wake thou shalt finde it fals,
Bothe in his bisynesses and in his lustes als.

Telle me where is Salamon, sumtime a kinge riche?
Or Sampson in his strenkethe, to whom was no man liche.

Or the fair man, Absolon, merveilous in chere?
Or the duke, Jonatas, a well-beloved fere?

Where is become Cesar, that lord was of al?
Or the riche man cloithd in purpur and in pal?

Telle me where is Tullius, in eloquence so swete?
Or Aristotle the philisophre with his wit so grete?

Where ben these worithy that weren here toforen?
Boithe kinges and bishopes her power is all loren.

All these grete princes with her power so hiye
Ben vanished away in twinkeling of an iye.

The joye of this wretched world is a short feeste:
It is likned to a shadewe that abideth leeste.

And yit it draweth man from Heveneriche blis,
And ofte time maketh him to sinne and do amis.

Thou that art but wormes mete, powder and dust,
To enhance thysilf in pride sette not thy lust.

For thou woost not today that thou shalt live tomorewe,
Therfore do thou evere weel, and thanne shalt thou not sorewe.

It were full joyful and swete lordship to have,
If so that lordship miyite a man fro deeth save.

But, for as miche a man muste die at the laste,
It is no worship but a charge lordship to taste.

Calle nothing thine owen, therfore, that thou maist her lese:
That the world hath lent thee, eft he wolde it sese!

Sette thine herte in Heven above and thenke what joye is there,
And thus to despise the world I rede that thou lere.

Why is the world beloved, that tals is and vein,
Sithen that hise welthes ben uncertein?

Also soone slideth his power away
As doith a brokil pot that freish is and gay.

Truste ye rather to letters writen in th'is
Than to this wretched world, that full of sinne is.

If is fals in his beheste and right disceiveable;
It hath begiled manye men, it is so unstable.

It is rather to beleve the waveringe wind
Than the chaungeable world, that maketh men so blind.

Whether thou slepe othere wake thou shalt finde it tals,
Bothe in his bisynesses and in his lustes als.

Telle me where is Salamon, sumtime a kinge riche?
Or Sampson in his strenkethe, to whom was no man liche.

Or the fair man, Absolon, merveilous in chere?
Or the duke, Jonatas, a well-beloved fere?

Where is become Cesar, that lord was of al?
Or the riche man cloithd in purpur and in pal?

Telle me where is Tullius, in eloquence so swete?
Or Aristotle the philisophre with his wit so grete?

Where ben these worithy that weren here totoren?
Boithe kinges and bishopes her power is all loren.

All these grete princes with her power so hiye
Ben vanished away in twinkeling of an iye.

The ioye of this wretched world is a short teeste:
It is likned to a shadewe that abideth leeste.

And yit it draweth man from Hevenenche blis,
And ofte time maketh him to sinne and do amis.

Thou that art but wormes mete, powder and dust,
To enhance thysilf in pride sette not thy lust.

For thou woost not today that thou shalt live tomorewe,
Therfore do thou evere weel, and tharine shalt thou not sorewe.

It were full joyful and swete lordship to have,
If so that lordship mryite a man fro deeth save.

But, for as miche a man muste die at the laste,
It is no worship but a charge lordship to taste.

Calle nothing thine owen, therfore, that thou maist her lese:
That the world hath lent thee, eft he wolde it sese!

Sette thine herte in Heven above and thenke what loye is there,
And thus to despise the world I rede that thou lere.