Classic Poem

Whon men beth muriest at her mele,
With mete and drink to maken hem glade,
With worship and with worldly wele,
They ben so set they conne not sade.
They have no deinte for to dele
With thinges that ben devoutly made:
They wene her honour and here hele
Shall ever laste and never diffade.
But in her hertes I wolde they hade,
Whon they gon richest men on array,
How sone that God hem may degrade,
And sumtime thenk on yesterday.

This day as leef we may be light,
With all the murthes that men may vise,
To revele with this birdes bright,
Uche mon gayest on his gise.
At the last it draweth to night,
That slep most make his maistrise.
Whon that he hath icud his might,
The morwe, he bosketh up to rise.
Then all draweth hem to fantasyse:
Wher he is becomen con no mon say.
And yif he wuste they were full wise,
For all is tornd to yesterday.

Socrates seith a word full wis:
It were well betere for to see
A mon that now parteth and dis
Then a feste of realte.
The feste wol make his flesh to ris,
And drawe his herte to vanite;
The body that on the bere lis
Sheweth the same that we shall be.
That ferful fit may no mon flee,
Ne with no wiles win it away:
Therfore among all jolite
Sumtime thenk on yesterday.

I have wist, sin I couthe meen,
That children hath by candle light
Her shadewe on the wal iseen,
And ronne therafter all the night.
Bisy aboute they han ben
To catchen it with all here might,
And whon they catchen it best wolde wene,
Sannest it shet out of her sight.
The shadewe catchen they ne might,
For no lines that they couthe lay.
This shadewe I may likne aright
To this world and yesterday.

Well thou wost withouten faile
That deth hath manast thee to die,
But whon that he wol thee assaile
That wost thou not ne never may spye.
Yif thou wolt don by my counsaile,
With siker defence be ay redye,
For siker defence in this bataile
Is clene lif, parfit and trye.
Put thy trust in Godes mercye,
It is the beste at all assay.
And ever among thou thee en-nuye
Into this world and yesterday.