What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any compaignye.

Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, To maken vertu of necessitee.

This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro; Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.

And therfore, at the kynges court, my brother, Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother.

The windy lights of Autumn flare; I watch the moonlit sails go by; I marvel how men toil and fare, The weary business that they play! Their voyaging is vanity,…

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.