Life and Existence

Live now, believe me, wait not till tomorrow; Gather the roses of life today. 2

Let the dozing soul remember, let the mind awake and revive by contemplating how our life goes by so swiftly and how our death comes near so silently; how quickly pleasure fades, and how when it is recalled it give us pain, how we seem always to think that times past must have been better than today.

Let the dozing soul remember, let the mind awake and revive by contemplating how our life goes by so swiftly and how our death comes near so silently; how quickly pleasure fades, and how when it is recalled it give us pain, how we seem always to think that times past must have been better than today.

I know all except myself. 5

But pray God that he absolve us all! 4

In this faith I will to live and die.

But where are the snows of yesteryear? 2

Ah God! Had I but studied In the days of my foolish youth. 1

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!

Servant in love and lord in marriage.

Men loven of propre kynde newefangelnesse.

To take a wyf withouten avysement.

No wedded man so hardy be t’assaille His wyves pacience, in trust to fynde Grisildis, for in certein he shal faille!

For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde, Ay fleeth the tyme, it nyl no man abyde.

But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth. Gat-toothed I was, and that bicam me weel.

Whan she cast of hir smok.

By God! in erthe I was his purgatorie, For which I hope his Soule be in glorie.

Sathan, that evere us waiteth to bigile.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme.

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas, Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede, The deeth of every man.

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas, Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede, The deeth of every man.

Yet in our asshen olde is fyr yreke.

Jhesu Crist, and seiynte Benedight, Blesse this hous from every wikked wight.