I that in heill wes and gladness, Am trublit now with gret seiknes, And feblit with infermite; Timor mortis conturbat me. Our plesance heir is all vane glory, This fals warld is bot transitory, The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle; Timor mortis conturbat me.
My deathe chasis my lyfe so besalie That wery is my goist to fle so fast.
Strong be thy wallis that about the standis; Wise be the people that within the dwellis; Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis; Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis; Riche be thy merchauntis in substance that excellis Fair be thy wives, right lovesom, white and small; Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
I that in heill wes and gladness, Am trublit now with gret seiknes, And feblit with infermite; Timor mortis conturbat me. Our plesance heir is all vane glory, This fals warld is bot transitory, The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle; Timor mortis conturbat me.