Takith gode hede, men, to ȝure end,
For as I sigge, so hit wol be.
Y not wharof beth men so prute;
Of erthe and axen, felle and bone?
Be the soule enis ute,
A vilir caraing nis ther non.
The caraing is so lolich to see,
That under erth men mot it hide;
Bothe wif and child wol fram him fle,
Ther nis no frend that wol him bide.