O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up-groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke God that after his image Yow made, and thynketh al nis but a faire This world, that passeth sone as floures faire.

And for ther is so gret diversite In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge, So prey I God that non myswrite the, Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge; And red …

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swych licour Of which vertu engendred is the f…

Oon ere it herde, at tothir out it wente.

And once again the scene was chang'd, New earth there seem'd to be, I saw the Holy City Beside the tideless sea; The light of God was on its streets, The gates…

It's a blessed thing to die daily. For what is there in this world to be accounted of! The best men according to the flesh, and things, are lighter than vanity…

Life is preparation for eternity.