Classic Poem

Worldes bliss ne last no throwe.
It wit and wend awey anon;
The lenger that ich it iknowe,
The lasse ic finde pris theron.
For all it is imeind wid care,
Mid sorewe and wid evel fare;
And at the laste, pouere and bare
It let mon, when it ginnet gon.
All the blisse this here and there
Bilouketh at ende wop and mon.

All shall gon that here mon owet,
All it shall wenden to nout;
The mon that here no good ne sowet,
When other repen, he worth bikakt.
Thenk, mon, forthy, whil thu havest mikte,
That thu thine gultes here arikte,
And worche good by day and nikte,
Ar then thu be of lisse ilakt.
Thu nost wanne Crist ure drikte
Thee asket that he havet bitakt.

All the blisse of thisse life
Thu shalt, mon, enden in wep:
Of huse and home and child and wife.
Sely mon, tak therof kep!
For thu shalt all beleven here
The eykte whereof louerd thu were;
When thu list, mon, upon bere,
And slepest a swithe druye slep,
Ne shaltu haben wit thee no fere
Butte thine werkes on an hep.

Mon, why seestu love and herte
On worldes blisse that nout ne last?
Why tholestu that thee so ofte smerte
For love that is so unstedefast?
Thu lickest huny of thorn, iwis,
That seest thy love on worldes bliss,
For full of bitternis it is.
Sore thu mikt ben ofgast,
That despendes here eykte amiss,
Werthurgh ben into helle itakt.

Thenk, mon, wharof Crist thee wroukte,
And do wey prude and fulthe mood.
Thenk how dere he thee bokte
On rode mit his swete blood;
Himself he gaf for thee in pris,
To buye thee bliss if thu be wis.
Bithenk thee, mon, and up aris
Of slouthe, and gin to worche good,
Whil time to worchen is,
For elles thu art witless and wood.

All day thu mikt understonde
And thy mirour bifor thee sen,
What is to don and to wonden,
And what to holden and to flen;
For all day thu siyst wid thin eyen
How this world went and how men deiet.
That wite well, that thu shalt dreyen
Det, also another det.
Ne helpet nout ther non to lien,
Ne may no mon bu det ageyn.

Ne wort ne good ther unforgulde,
Ne non evel ne worth unboukt;
Whanne thu list, mon, under molde
Thu shalt haven as thu havest wrokt.
Bithenk thee well, forthy, ic rede,
And clanse thee of thine misdede,
That he thee helpe at thine nede,
That so dure us havet iboukt,
And to hevene blisse lede
That evere lest and failet nout.