fol. 189r Hwenne thin heou bloketh, And thi strengthe woketh, And thi neose coldeth, And thi tunge voldeth,line5 And the byleveth thi breth, And thi lif the atgeth, Me nymeth the, nuthe wrecche; On flore me the streccheth, And leyth the on bere,line10 And bipreoneth the on here, And doth the ine putte wurmes ivere — Theonne bith hit sone of the al so thu never nere.

fol. 189r When your hue grows pale, And your strength weakens, And your nose grows cold, And your speech fails,line5 And your breath leaves you, And your life departs from you, They take you now, poor man; They stretch you on the floor, And lay you on the bier,line10 And sew you up in a haircloth, And put you in a pit with worms — Then soon it will be as if you never were.