82ra]    5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 82rb] 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 82rc] 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 82va] 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 82vb] 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 82vc] 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 83r] 270 275

¶ Herkne to my ron, As Ich ou telle con    Of Elde, al hou it ges, Of a mody mon Hihte Maxumon,    Soth, withoute les. Clerc he was, ful god, So moni mon understod —    Nou herkne hou it wes. Ys wille he hevede ynoh: Purpre ant pal he droh,    Ant other murthes mo; He wes the feyrest mon Withouten Absolon    The seththe wes ant tho. Tho laste is lyf so longe That he bigan unstronge,    As mony tides so. Him con rewe sore Al is wilde lore,    For Elde him dude so wo. So sone as Elde him com, Ys boc an honde he nom,    Ant gan of reuthes rede. Of his herte ord, He made moni word,    Ant of is lyves dede He gan mene is mone. So feble were is bone,    Ys hew bigon to wede; So clene he was ygon, That heu ne hade he none;    Ys herte gan to blede. “Care ant kunde of Elde Maketh mi body felde    That Y ne mai stonde upriht, Ant min herte unbolde, Ant mi body to colde,    That er thou wes so lyht, Ant mi body thunne. Such is worldes wunne!    This day me thinketh nyht. Riche Y was of londe, Ant mon of fayrest honde —    That wes bote a stounde! Mi meyn, that wes so strong, Mi middel smal ant long,    Ybroht it is to grounde. Forthi Y grunte ant grone, When Y go myn one,    Ant thenke on childes dede. Al this wylde wone Nis hit bote a lone —    Her beth blisse gnede! To wepen ant to grone, To make muche mone,    That we doth for nede; Ant under the stone, With fleish ant with bone,    Wormes shule we fede. Ther Y stod in a snowe Wel heye upon a lowe;    Y was a wilde mon. Hunten herd Y blowe, Hertes gonne rowe;    Stunte me ne ston. “Nou hit nis nout so — Y lerne forte go,    Ant stonde ant syke sore; My wele is went to wo! Ant so beth other mo    That lyved habbeth yore. So litht as Y wes tho, Ant wilde as eny ro,    Er Y bygon to hore. Reuthful is my red, Ne shulde me be gled —    Me reweth swythe sore. “With hunger Y am feed; Heo seith Y ‘spille breed,’    My wif that shulde be. Myn herte is hevy so led, Me were levere be ded    Then lyves forte be. Hit is ful soth ysed, The mon that haveth dred,    His frendes wile him fle. “Tho I was strong ant wis Ant werede feir ant grys,    Ich havede frendes tho. Fol soth iseid it ys, The mon that is of pris,    He haveth frendes mo. My myht no wyht nys, Ygon hit is, ywys;    He bringe me of wo. Men wyste non, ywys, That werede veyr ant gris    (Ythryven ase Y was tho), That havede more of his: Nou hit so nout nys,    Ah al hit is ago! “So gentil ne so chis, Ne mon of more pris —    Ful wo nou me may be! The world wrechede is, Ant that he wyten, ywis.    My frendes nulleth me se. “Fair Y was ant fre, Ant semly forte se —    That lasteth lutel stounde! Gladdere mon with gle Ne mihte never be,    Thurh al Godes mounde. Elde, unhende is he; He chaungeth al my ble    Ant bringeth me to grounde. When Y shal henne te, Y not whider Y fle;    Forthi Y sike unbestounde. “Y sike ant sorewe sore; Ne may Y be namore    Mon as Y was tho. Ys hit nowhith yore That Y bigon to hore;    Elde is nou my fo. Y wake as water in wore! Jesu Crist, thin ore,    Why is me so wo? “Thicke Y was ant riht, Of wordes wis ant lyht,    As Ich understonde; Of belte Y wes briht, Ant lovelyche ydiht,    Ant fayrest mon of londe. “When foules singeth on rys, Y mourne ant serewe, ywis,    That unnethe Y go. This world wicked is, Ant that ye wyten, ywys,    Hit is byfalle so. “Reuthful is my red. Hue maketh me selde gled,    My wyf that shulde be. Y dude as hue me bad, Of me hue is asad —    Evele mote hue the! Hue clepeth me ‘spille bred’ — Serewe upon hyre hed! —    For hue nul me yse. Ych am hevy so led; Betere me were ded    Then thus alyve to be. “Ase Ich rod thourh Rome Richest alre home,    With murthes as Ycholde, Ledys wyht so swon, Maidnes shene so bon,    Me come to biholde. Ant seyden on after on: ‘Gent ryd Maximon    With is burnes bolde!’ Nou nis non of the That wolleth me yse,    In mine clothes olde. “This world is wok ant les, Y nam noht as Ych wes;    Ych wot by myne chere. For gent Ich wes ant chys, Ant mon of muche pris,    Ant leof to ben yfere. “Ther nes clerc ne knyht Ne mon of more myht    That levere wes in londe. Ystunt is al my syht, This day me thuncheth nyht;    Such is the world to fonde! “Fair ich wes of hewe, Ant of love trewe —    That lasteth lutel stounde! They that me yknewe Hem may sore rewe,    Soth, hit is yfounde. “Of nothing that Y se Ne gladieth me no gle;    Myn herte breketh atuo! For Ich wes on the That woned wes glad to be,    In londe that wes tho. Nou Ich am liche a tre That loren hath is ble;    Ne groweth hit namo. For thah Icholde fle, Y not wyder te;    Elde me worcheth wo. “Stunt is al mi plawe, That Y wes woned to drawe    Whil Y wes so lyht. “Y wolde Y were in rest, Lowe leid in chest.    My blisse is forloren! For mourne Y make mest The while that hit lest.    Nou wo is me, therfore! Ne gladieth me no gest; Ne murgeth me no fest;    Alas, that Y wes bore! “This lond me thuncheth west; Deth Y doute mest:    Whider that Y shal te? Whet helpeth hit ytold? Y waxe blo ant cold;    Of lyve Y wolde be. “When blosmes breketh on brere,      Murthes to me were,    Ant blythe Y was of mod. Care ant kunde yfere Changeth al mi chere    Ant mengeth al my blod. To longe Ichave ben here, Bi mo then sixty yere,    So Y me understod. Icholde that Ych were Al so Y never nere —    My lyf is nothyng god. “Myn neb that wes so bryht So eny sterre lyht,    Falu is ant won. My body that wes so wyht Styth hit stod upryht —    Y wes a mody mon! My mayn ant eke my myht! Stunt is al my syht!    Lerneth nou of thon: Nis non so kene knyht That so ne byth ydyht    When Elde him cometh on. “Mi body that wes strong, Mi middel, smal ant long,    Ybroht hit is to grounde! Nou nabbe Y nout that yong, That speche, ne that song;    Mi lif nys bote a stounde! Thah Y be men among, Y gladie for no song    Of haueke ne of hounde. “My deth Icholde fle, For Ich am on of the    That deyeth boute wounde. Ne con Y me no red; Myn herte is hevi so led    Ant wel faste ybounde. Ich wes of feyre leynthe; Agon is al my streynthe    In armes ant in honde. “Er Ich were thus old, Ich wes of speche bold,    Ne recchi wo hit here; Nou Ich am old ant cold, Wet helpeth more ytold?    Of lyve Ycholde Ich were. “Gentil Ich wes ant freo, Wildore then the leo    Er Y bygon to hore, Nou Y nam nout so, My weole is turnd to wo,    Ant hath ybe ful yore. “Ant so bueth other mo That lyveden nou ant tho,    Ne reccheth of weole ne wo. Deth is that Y munne — Me seggeth that hit is sunne —    God brynge us out of tho.”       Amen, par charite,       Ant so mote hit be.

¶ Hearken to my song, For I can tell you    Of Age, all how it goes, And of a distraught man Named Maximian,    Truly, without lie. A clerk he was, quite good, As many a man understood —    Now hearken how it was. He’d fulfilled his will enough: Fine silks and robes he’d had,    And other joys besides; He was the fairest man Since Absolon    Had been alive and thrived. Then lasted his life so long That he began to lose strength,    As happens many times. He did sorely regret All his willful ways,    For Age so gave him woe. As soon as Age came to him, He took his book in hand,    And began to read of regrets. From his heart’s treasure-store, He uttered many words,    And regarding his life’s deeds He began to say his lament. So feeble were his bones,    His hue began to fade; So wholly was he changed, That color had he none;    His heart began to bleed. “Sorrow and Age’s nature Cause my body to shrivel    So I can’t stand upright, And my heart to be weak, And my body to chill,    Which before was so nimble, And my body to grow thin. Such is the world’s joy!    This day seems as night. “Rich I was in land, And man of fairest hand —    That lasted but a moment! My strength, it was so strong; My waist small and long,    Brought it is to ground. “Therefore I grunt and groan, When I go on my own,    And think on child’s deeds. All this willful dwelling Is nothing but a loan —    Here bliss is scarce! To weep and to groan, To make much moan,    We do that for need; And under the stone, With flesh and with bone,    Worms we shall feed. “There I stood in snow Very high on a hill;    I was a willful man. I heard hunters blow, Harts were disturbed;    No stone impeded me. “Now it is not so — I learn how to walk,    And stand and sorely sigh; My weal has gone to woe! And such are many others    Who’ve lived very long. So nimble was I then, And wild as any roe,    Before I began to gray. Sorrowful is my thought, Nor should I be happy —    I’m so deeply regretful. “With hunger I am fed; She says I ‘waste bread,’    My wife that she should be. My heart’s as heavy as lead, I rather would be dead    Than alive so to be. It’s very truly said, The man who carries fear,    His friends from him will flee. “When I was strong and wise And wore splendid furs,    I had friends then. Full truly said it is, The man who has the praise,    He has the more friends. My might is not strong, Gone it is, indeed;    It makes me suffer woe. Men know not, indeed, Who wear splendid furs    (Thriving as I was then), Who own many things: Now it’s as if it isn’t,    And everything is gone! “So noble and so choice, No man of higher praise —    Most sad now may he be! The world is miserable, And that he knows, indeed.    My friends don’t wish to see me. “Fair I was and generous, And comely to behold —    That lasts a brief instant! A gladder man with mirth Might there never be,    Through all God’s power. Age, discourteous is he; He changes all my color    And casts me to ground. When I shall travel from hence, I know not whither I’ll flee;    Therefore I often sigh. “I sigh and grieve sore; I cannot be any more    The man as I was then. It’s not very long ago Since I began to gray;    Age is now my foe. I’m restless as waves on shore. Jesus Christ, your mercy,    Why am I so sad? “Muscular I was and straight, Of words wise and quick,    As I understand; With belt I was splendid, And beautifully clothed,    And fairest man in land. “When birds sing on limb, I mourn and sorrow, indeed,    So that scarcely may I walk. This world wicked is, And that you know, indeed,    For it’s befallen so. “Sorrowful is my thought. She makes me seldom happy,    My wife that she should be. I did as she bade me, Yet with me she’s unsatisfied —    Evil may she thrive! She calls me ‘wasted bread’ — Sorrow upon her head! —    For she’ll not look at me. I’m as heavy as lead; Better were I dead    Than thus alive to be. “As I rode through Rome Richest of all men,    With joys as I held, Ladies white as swans, Maidens bright as bone,    Came to gaze at me. And said one after one: ‘Nobly rides Maximian    With his valiant men!’ Now there’s none of them Who will look at me,    In my old clothes. “This world is weak and false, I am not as I was;    I know it by my face. For noble I was and choice, And man of great praise,    And dear to be among. “There was no clerk or knight Or man of greater might    Who dearer was in land. Blinded is all my sight, This day seems to me night;    So does the world deceive! “Handsome I was of hue, And of love true —    That lasts a brief instant! They who knew me May feel deep pity,    Truly, it is found. “Nothing that I see Gladdens or brings me mirth;    My heart breaks in two! For I was one of them Accustomed to be happy,    Thriving upon earth. Now I’m like a tree Having lost its color;    It no longer grows. For though I would flee, I know not whither to go;    Age strikes me with woe. “Ended is all my play, Which I was wont to pursue    While I was so nimble. “I wish I were at rest, Laid low in coffin.    My happiness is destroyed! For mostly I make mourning While time remains.    Now woe is me, therefore! No guest cheers me up; No feast gives me mirth.    Alas, that I was born! “This land I think a waste; Death I fear most:    Whither shall I go? What helps if it were told? I grow dark and cold;    Dead I’d like to be. “When flowers open on briar, Pleasures came to me,    And I was happy in spirit. Sorrow and nature together Wholly change my mood    And agitate my passions. Too long have I been here, By more than sixty years,    As I have recalled. I wish that I were All as I never was —    My life’s nothing good. “My nose that was as fine As any star’s light,    Is faded and discolored. My body that was so white Sturdily stood upright —    I was a worthy man! My strength and my might! Blinded is all my sight!    Learn now from your life: There’s no knight so keen That he’ll not be afflicted    When Age comes to him. “My body that was strong, My waist, slender and long,    It is brought to ground! I have not now that youth, That speech, nor that song;    My life’s but an instant! Though I be among men, I gladden for no song    Of hawk or of hound. “My death I would flee, For I’m one of those    Who die without wound. Nor can I prepare myself; My heart’s as heavy as lead    And very tightly bound. I was of handsome height; Gone is all my strength    In arms and in hand. “Before I thus was old, I was of speech bold,    I cared not who it heard; Now I am old and cold, What helps it to say more?    Dead I wish I were. “Noble I was and free, Wilder than the lion    Before I began to gray, Now I am not so, My weal has turned to woe,    And has been a long time. “And so it is for many more Who lived now and then,    Who care not for weal or woe. Death is what I lament — I say that it is sin —    God bring us out of it.”       Amen, for charity,       And so may it be.

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