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Death is moste dredefull thynge that is
In all the worlde, as the boke wytnesseth this
For there is no quycke thynge lyuynge
That agaynst death is sore dredynge
Fleeth it as long as he may/but at last it is deathes pray
And when death cōmeth, and maketh debate
All thynge he bryngeth, in to another state
For no man may agaynst hym stande
Whyther he come by water, or by lande.