He luket este, the daye cam on,
Upon his gladsum pethe,
And the braid mone hang in the west,
Her paleness wase lyke dethe;
And by her sat are littil stern,
Quhan all the laife war gane,
It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme
In the wyde worild its lane.
Then the Filossofere was sadde,
And he turnit his ee awaye,