away,
I cannot hope for another; no one will make a gift;
have my wallet still, but bare and empty it must stay;
But that is not the worst of all my shrift.
"From my trimming of good wolf's fur the hair is falling out,
Across my flagon's mouth the spider has spun a sheet;
The joys of youth have left me; no one comes me about,
To wash my sweated shirt and make it neat."
"For all the ills of life, my friend, one lives as best one may.
The blest rays of the sunshine still warm my heart and