Biseth you in this ilke lif
Of liflode in that other lif.

Sethe mon shall henne wende
And nede deyen at then ende,
And wonien he not whare,
Good is that he trusse his pak
And timliche pute his stor in sak,
That not when henne fare.

Euch mon thenche for to spede
That he ne lese the grete mede
That God us dighte yare.

This lif nis bote sorewe alway,
Unnethe is mon gladfol o day
For sorewe and tene and care;
Mon with sorewe is furst ibore,
And eft with sorewe rend and tore
If he right thenkth of his ware.

What is lordshipe and heynesse,
What helpth catel and richesse?
Gold and selver awey shall fare;
Thy gost shall wonye thou ne wost nout where;

Thy body worth wounde in grete other here—
Of other thing thou worst all bare.

Bithench, mon, yerne on euche wise
Er thou be brought to thilke asise,
On what thou shalt truste thare.
What good thou havest, mon, here idon
Prest ther thou shalt underfon,
Elles ever thou worst in care.

Be mon yong other be he old,
Non so strong ne well itold
That hennes ne mot fare.
Deth is hud, mon, in thy glove,
With derne dunt that shall he prove
And smite thou nost whare.

Tofore the deth is betere o dede
Then after tene, and more of mede,
And more quencheth care:
Be monnes wittes him bireved,
His eyen blind, his eren deved,
The cofres beth all bare.

Be the gost from body reved,
The bernes sone shulle ben sheved,
Ne shall me nothing spare;
Be the body with greth biweved,
The soule sone shall be leved,
Alas! of frendes bare.