Which is man who wot, and what,
Whether that he be ought or nought?
Of erthe and air groweth up a gnat,
And so doth man, when al is sought;
Though man be waxen gret and fat,
Man melteth away so deth a mought.
Mannes might n'is worth a mat,
But noyeth himself and turneth to nought.
Who wot, save He that al hath wrought,
Wher man bicometh when he shal dye?
Who knoweth by dede ought but by thought?
For this world fareth as a fantasye.

Dyeth man, and beestes dye,
And al is on occasioun;
And alle o deth bos bothe drye,
And han one incarnacioun;
Save that men beeth more slye,
Al is o comparisoun.
Who wot if mannes soule stye
And beestes soules sinketh down?
Who knoweth beestes entencioun,
On her creatour how they crye,
Save only God that knoweth her soun?
For this world fareth as a fantasye.

Eche secte hopeth to be save
Boldely by her beleeve;
And echone upon God hy crave—
Why shulde God with hem Him greeve?
Echone troweth that other rave,
But alle hy cheseth God for cheeve,
And hope in God echone they have,
And by her wit her worching preeve.
Thus many maters men don meeve,
Sechen her wittes how and why;
But Godes mercy is us alle beheeve,
For this world fareth as a fantasye.