Ther is no man but hens must wende!
Deth to no wyht can be a frende,
Alle thinge to erthe he wyl downe cast;
Whan that God wol alle thynge hath ende,
Lengere than hym lyst nothynge may last.
Magdalyn. I thanke ȝow, frendys, ffor ȝour good chere,
Myn hed doth ake, as it xulde brest;
I pray ȝow, therfore, while ȝe ben here,
A lytil whyle that I may rest.
Quartus consolator nuncius. That Lord that made bothe est and west,