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.

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

Men sholde wedden after hir estat, For youthe and elde is often at debat.

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

My troubles are many They're deep as a well I swear there ain't no Heaven And I pray there ain't no hell But I'll never know by living only my dying will tell.…

Is there life before death? That's chalked up In Ballymurphy. Competence with pain, Coherent miseries, a bite and a sup, We hug our little destiny again.

The best of men cannot suspend their fate: The good die early, and the bad die late.