Alle ȝour wurchep is now lost;
In felde, in town, and in every cost,
Men may ȝow dyspravyn.
Now alle ȝour wurchep it is lorn,
And every man may ȝow we scorn,
And bydde ȝow go syttyn in the corn,
And chare awey the ravyn.
Tertius miles. ȝa, it was hyȝ tyme to leyn oure bost,
ffor whan the body toke aȝen the gost,
He wold a frayd many an ost,