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ffor in oure logge is so gret peyn,
  That non erthely tonge can telle:
            With ȝow I go my way.
I xal ȝow here forthe with me,
And shewe ȝow sportes of oure gle,
Of oure myrthis now ȝal ȝe se,
            And evyr synge "welaway."

Mors. Off kynge Herowde alle men beware,
  That hath rejoycyd in pompe and pryde;
ffor alle his boste of blysse ful bare,
  He lythe now ded here on his syde!
ffor whan I come, I cannot spare,
  Fro me no whyht may hym hyde;
Now is he ded and cast in care,
  In helle pytt evyr to abyde;
            His lordchep is al lorn.
Now is he as pore as I,
Wormys mete is his body,
His sowle in helle ful peynfully
            Of develis is al to-torn.

Alle men dwellyng upon the grownde,
  Beware of me, be myn councel;
ffor feynt felachep in me is fownde, —
  I kan no curtesy, as I ȝow tel;
ffor be a man nevyr so sownde,
  Of helthe in herte nevyr so wel,
I come sodeynly within a stownde, —
  Me withstande may no castel,
            My jurnay wyl I spede.
Of my comyng no man is ware,
ffor whan men make most mery fare,
Than sodeynly I cast hem in care,
            And sle them evyn indede.