 | Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century |  |
149. Farewell, this World is but a Cherry Fair
Ffare well, this world! I take my leve for euere,
I am arested to apere at goddes face.
O myghtyfull god, þu knowest that I had leuere
Than all this world, to haue oone houre space
To make a-sythe for all my grete trespace.
My hert, alas! is brokyne for that sorowe,
[Som be this day that shall not be to-morow]
I am arested to apere at goddes face.
O myghtyfull god, þu knowest that I had leuere
Than all this world, to haue oone houre space
To make a-sythe for all my grete trespace.
My hert, alas! is brokyne for that sorowe,
[Som be this day that shall not be to-morow]
This lyfe, I see, is but a cheyre feyre;
All thyngis passene and so most I algate.
To-day I sat full ryall in a cheyere,
Tyll sotell deth knokyd at my gate,
And on-avysed he seyd to me, chek-mate!
lo! how sotell he maketh a devors—
and wormys to fede, he hath here leyd my cors.
All thyngis passene and so most I algate.
To-day I sat full ryall in a cheyere,
Tyll sotell deth knokyd at my gate,
And on-avysed he seyd to me, chek-mate!
lo! how sotell he maketh a devors—
and wormys to fede, he hath here leyd my cors.
Speke softe, ye folk, for I am leyd aslepe!
I haue my dreme, in trust is moche treson.
ffram dethes hold feyne wold I make a lepe,
But my wysdom is turnyd into feble resoun:
[I see this worldis joye lastith but a season].
Wold to god, I had remembyrd me be-forne!
I sey no more but be ware of ane horne!
I haue my dreme, in trust is moche treson.
ffram dethes hold feyne wold I make a lepe,
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[I see this worldis joye lastith but a season].
Wold to god, I had remembyrd me be-forne!
I sey no more but be ware of ane horne!
This febyll world, so fals and so vnstable,
Promoteth his louers for a lytell while,
But at the last he yeveth hem a bable
Whene his peynted [trowth is torned in-to gile].
Experyence cawsith me þe trowth to compile,
Thynkyng this, to late alas! that I began,
For foly & hope disseyveth many a man.
Promoteth his louers for a lytell while,
But at the last he yeveth hem a bable
Whene his peynted [trowth is torned in-to gile].
Experyence cawsith me þe trowth to compile,
Thynkyng this, to late alas! that I began,
For foly & hope disseyveth many a man.
[Farewell, my frendis! the tide abidith no man:
I moste departe hens & so shall ye,
But in this passage the beste song þat I can
Is Requiem Eternam—I pray God grant it me!
Whan I haue endid all myn aduersite,
Graunte me in paradise to haue a mancyon,
That shede his blode for my redempcion.
I moste departe hens & so shall ye,
But in this passage the beste song þat I can
Is Requiem Eternam—I pray God grant it me!
Whan I haue endid all myn aduersite,
Graunte me in paradise to haue a mancyon,
That shede his blode for my redempcion.
Beati mortui qui in domino morivntur
Humiliatus sum vermis.]
Humiliatus sum vermis.]
| Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century | |