The Ship of Fools, Volume 1

by Sebastian Brant

Of them that prolonge from day to day to amende themselfe.

He that cras cras syngeth with the crowe
Deferrynge the tyme of his amendement
Amonge our folys, in this our shyp shall rowe
For his presumpcion, dull mynde and blynde intent
What knowe these folys whether god omnypotent
Wyll graunt them to lyue vntyll another day.
Wherfore we ought to mende vs whyle we may.

If vnto any almyghty god doth sende

From heuen aboue by inspyracion dyuyne

Wyll and gode mynde his synnes to amende

And with his grace his thoughtes enlumyne

If that synner wyll nat therto enclyne

But doth dyffer and dryue frome day to day

A fole he is, no wyse man wyll denay

Yet many folowe this inconuenience

And knowynge theyr owne vyce, and lyfe full of ordure

The payne therof, and howe euery offence

And synne is punysshed of eche creature

Also they knowe that theyr deth is vnsure

And dye they must knowynge no houre nor space

Yet synne they styll, nat receyuynge this grace

They folowe the crowes cry to theyr great sorowe

Cras cras cras to morowe we shall amende

And if we mende nat than, than shall we the next morowe

Outher shortly after, we shall no more offende

Amende mad fole whan god this grace doth sende

He is vnwyse whiche trustes the crowes songe

And that affermyth that he shall lyue so longe

Syns deth (as I haue sayde) is so vnstable

Wherfore we ought alway vs to prouyde

And mende our lyfe and synne abhomynable

For though that thou be hole at the euyn tyde

Thou knowest nat sure that thou shall here abyde

Untyll the morne but if thou dye in that space

It shall be to late for the to cry cras cras

Syns it is in thy power that thou may

Amende thy selfe whan god inspyreth the

Why shalt thou tary vnto another day

The longer tary the lesse apt shalt thou be.

In olde sores is grettest ieopardye

Whan costome and vse is tourned to nature

It is right harde to leue: I the ensure

Therfore if that thou lewdly fall in syn

By thy frayle flesshe, and the fals fendes trayne

Take nat the vse, contynue nat therin

But by confessyon shortly ryse agayne

Synne alway thretenyth vnto the doer, payne

And grutche of conscience with moche thought and wo

Yet alwaye ar we redy and prone therto

Mannys lyfe on erth is euyn a chyualry

Agaynst our flesshe fyghtyng whiche often doth vs shame

Also the deuyll our goostly ennemy

On his parte labours to get vs in his frame

Thus oft we fall, and than our foly blame

Repentynge sore, and wyllynge to refrayne

But within an houre we fall therto agayne

Thus euer to vyce ar we redy and prone

The gyftis of grace we clene from vs exclude

We haue great cause sore to complayne and mone

We leue that thynge (our myndes ar so rude)

That myght vs gyde to helth and beatytude

Thus our owne foly, and our owne blynde madnes

Us often ledyth vnto great wretchydnes

And if it fortune, that at any tyme

Within our myndes we purpose stedfastly

For to confesse our synne, excesse, or cryme

Agayne our thought is changyd by and by

Away than ren we with the crowys crye

With one cras, to morowe, perauenture twayne

Without regarde had, vnto infernall payne

But in the meane space if that deth vntretable

Arrest the with his mace, fyers and cruell

And for thy synne and lyfe abhomynable

By iustyce damme thy soule for euer to hell

Than woldest thou gladly (If thou myght) do well

But there is no grace but doloure payne and sorowe

Than is to late to crye cras cras to morowe

The Enuoy of the Actour.

Say what delyte, thou fole or what pleasoure

Takest thou in synne and voluptuosyte

It is small sothly, and passeth euery houre

Lyke to the water, and that in myserye

Therfore set nat in synne thy felycyte

This day begyn thy lewde lyfe to refuse

Perchaunce to morowe sholde be to late to the

So sholde cras the crwys songe the sore abuse

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