When men beeth meriest at her mele,
With mete and drink to maken hem glade,
With worship and with worldlich wele,
They been so set they cunne not sade:
They have no deinté for to dele
With thinges that been devoutly made;
They weene her honour and her hele
Shal ever laste and never diffade.
But in her hertes I wolde they hade,
When they gon richest men on aray,
How soone that God hem may degrade,
And sum time thenk on yesterday. . . .

Salamon saide in his poisy:
He holdeth wel betere with an hounde
That is liking and joly,
And of seknesse hol and sounde,
Than by a lion, though he ly
Cold and ded upon the grounde.
Wherof serveth his victory
That was so stif in eche a stounde?
The moste fool, I herde respounde,
Is wiser whil he live may
Than he that had a thousend pounde
And was buried yesterday. . . .

I have wist, sin I couthe meen,
That children hath by candel-light
Her shadewe on the wal y-seen,
And runne therafter al the night;
Bisy aboute they han been
To cachen it with al her might,
And when they cachen it best wolde ween,
Soonest it shet out of her sight:
The shadewe cachen they ne might,
For no lines that they couthe lay.
This shadewe I may likne aright
To this world and yesterday. . . .

Sum men saith that deth is a theef
And al unwarned wil on him stele;
And I say nay, and make a preef
That deth is stedefast, trewe, and lele,
And warneth eche man of his greef
That he wil o day with him dele.
The lif that is to you so leef
He wil you reve, and eke your hele;
These pointes may no man him repele,
He cometh so boldely to pik his pray.
When men beeth meriest at her mele
I rede ye thenk on yesterday.