Death Is The End Of

And When A Beest Is Deed, He Hath No Peyne; But Man After His Deeth Moot Wepe And Pleyne.

Lat Take A Cat, And Fostre Him Wel With Milk, And Tendre Flesh, And Make His Couche Of Silk, And Let Him Seen A Mous Go By The Wal; Anon He Weyveth Milk, And Flesh, And Al, And Every Deyntee That Is In That Hous, Swich Appetyt Hath He To Ete A Mous.

Soun Is Noght But Air Ybroken, And Every Speche That Is Spoken, Loud Or Privee, Foul Or Fair, In His Substaunce Is But Air; For As Flaumbe Is But Lighted Smoke, Right So Soun Is Air Ybroke.

But, Lord Crist! Whan That It Remembreth Me Upon My Yowthe, And On My Jolitee, It Tickleth Me Aboute Myn Herte Roote. Unto This Day It Dooth Myn Herte Boote That I Have Had My World As In My Tyme. But Age, Alias! That Al Wole Envenyme, Hath Me Biraft My Beautee And My Pith. Lat Go, Farewel! The Devel Go Therwith! The Flour Is Goon, Ther Is Namoore To Telle; The Bren, As I Best Kan, Now Most I Selle.

One Eare It Heard, At The Other Out It Went.