Classic Poem

I wolde witen of sum wis wight,
Witterly, what this world were:
It fareth as a foules flight,
Now is it henne, now is it here;
Ne be we never so muche of might,
Now be we on benche, now be we on bere;
And be we never so war and wight,
Now be we sek, now be we fere;
Now is on proud, withouten pere,
Now is the selve iset not by;
And whos wol alle thing hertly here,
This world fareth as a fantasy.

The sonnes cours, we may well kenne,
Ariseth est and geth down west;
The rivers into the see they renne,
And it is never the more, almest;
Windes rosheth her and henne,
In snow and rein is non arest.
Whon this wol stunte, who wot or whenne,
But only God, on grounde grest?
The erthe in on is ever prest,
Now bedropped, now all drye,
But uche gome glit forth as a gest:
This world fareth as a fantasy.

Kunredes come and kunredes gon,
As joineth generacions,
But alle hee passeth everichon,
For all her preparacions.
Sum are foryete, clene as bon,
Among alle maner nacions:
So shull men thenken us nothing on,
That now han the ocupacions.
And alle thes disputacions
Ideliche all us ocupye,
For Christ maketh the creacions,
And this world fareth as a fantasy.

Whuch is mon who wot, and what,
Whether that he be ought or nought?
Of erthe and eir groweth up a gnat,
And so doth mon, whon all is sought.
Thaugh mon be waxen gret and fat,
Mon melteth awey so deth a mought:
Monnes might nis worth a mat,
But nuyeth himself and turneth to nought.
Who wot, save he that all hath wrought,
Wher mon becometh whon he shall die?
Who knoweth by dede oughte, bote by thought?
For this world fareth as a fantasy.

Dieth mon and beestes die,
And all is on ocasion;
And alle o deth bos bothe drye,
And han on incarnacion:
Save that men beth more sleighe,
All is o comparison.
Who wot yif monnes soule stighe,
And bestes soules sinketh down?
Who knoweth beestes intencioun,
On her creatour how they crye?
Save only God that knoweth here soun,
For this world fareth as a fantasy.

Uche secte hopeth to be save,
Baldely, by here beleve,
And uch one upon God he crave—
Why shulde God with hem him greve?
Uch one trouweth that other rave,
But alle he cheoseth God for cheve;
And hope in God uch one they have,
And by here wit here worching preve.
Thus mony matters men don meve,
Sechen her wittes how and why;
But Godes mercy us alle biheve,
For this world fareth as a fantasy.

But leve we ure disputisoun,
And leve on him that all hath wrought:
We mowe not preve, by no resoun,
How he was born that all us bought;
But whol in ure intencioun
Worshipe we him in herte and thought,
For he may turne kindes upsedown,
That alle kindes made of nought.
Whon all ur bokes ben forth brought,
And all ur craft of clergye,
And all ur wittes ben thorughout sought,
Yit we fareth as a fantasy.

Of fantasy is all ur fare,
Olde and yonge and alle ifere:
But make we murie and sle care,
And worshipe we God whil we ben here;
Spende ur good and litel spare,
And uche mon cheries otheres cheere.
Thenk how we comen hider all bare—
Ur wey-wending is in a were.
Prey we the Prince, that hath no pere,
Tak us whol to his mercy,
And kepe ur conscience clere,
For this world is but fantasy.