Some while isheen and bright of hue,
And after that full dark and pale,
And every moneth changeth new,
That who the very sothé knew
All thing is built on brittleness,
Save that women always be true;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.
The lusty freshé summer’s day,
And Phœbus with his beamés clear,
Towardés night they draw away,