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¶ Middelerd for mon wes mad. Unmihti aren is meste mede. This Hedy hath on honde yhad That hevene hem is hest to hede. Icherde a blisse budel us bad The dreri Domesdai to drede, Of sunful sauhting sone be sad. That derne doth this derne dede,       Thah he ben derne done,   This wrakeful werkes under wede       In soule soteleth sone. Sone is sotel, as Ich ou sai, This sake, althah hit seme suete That I telle a poure play That furst is feir ant seththe unsete. This wilde wille went awai With mone ant mournyng muchel unmete. That liveth on likyng out of lay His hap he deth ful harde on hete       Ageyns he howeth henne —   Alle is thrivene thewes threte       That thenketh nout on thenne. Ageynes thenne, us threteth thre: Yef he beth thryven ant thowen in theode,      Ur soule bone so brotherli be As berne best that bale forbeode. That wole wihtstonden streynthe of theo, Is rest is reved with the reode. Fyth of other ne darth he fleo That Fleishshes faunyng furst foreode —       That falsist is of fyve!   Yef we leveth eny leode,       Werryng is worst of wyve. Wyves wille were ded wo, Yef he is wicked forte welde; That burst shal bete for hem bo: He shal him burewen thah he hire belde. By body ant soule, Y sugge also That some beeth founden under felde That hath to fere is meste fo! Of gomenes he mai gon al gelde       Ant sore ben fered on folde,   Lest he to harmes helde       Ant happes hente unholde. Hom unholdest her is on — Withouten helle — ase Ich hit holde: So fele bueth founden monnes fon! The furst of hem biforen Y tolde. Ther afterward: this Worldes won With muchel unwynne us woren wolde; Sone beth this gomenes gon That maketh us so brag ant bolde       Ant biddeth us ben blythe;   An ende he casteth ous fol colde       In sunne ant serewe sythe. In sunne ant sorewe Y am seint, That siweth me so sully sore. My murthe is al with mournyng meint, Ne may Ich mythen hit namore. When we beth with this world forwleynt That we ne lustneth lyves lore, The Fend in fyht us fynt so feynt, We falleth so flour when hit is frore,       For folkes Fader al fleme.   Wo him wes ywarpe yore       That Crist nul nowyht queme. To queme Crist we weren ycore, Ant kend ys craftes forte knowe. Leve we nout we buen forlore In lustes thah we lyggen lowe; We shule aryse ur Fader byfore Thah fon us fallen umbe throwe: To borewen us all, he wes ybore! This bonnyng when him bemes blowe,       He byt us buen of hyse,   Ant on ys ryht hond hente rowe       Wyth ryhtwyse men to aryse.

¶ Middle-earth was made for men. Puny are its best rewards. Blessed God has brought this about That heaven is essential for them to heed. I heard a herald of joy hearken us To dread the terrifying Doomsday, To grow weary soon of sinful pursuit. Those who secretly do these hidden deeds,       Though they be privately performed,   These wicked deeds under cover       Are exposed soon in the soul. Soon is exposed, I say to you, This sin, although it seems sweet I judge it a poor pleasure Which first is fair and then later repulsive. This unruly willfulness passes away With highly extreme lament and grief. He who lives in unlawful desire Will violently cry out against his fate       When he goes from here —   All his good virtues will rebuke       Whoever fails to think on what comes later. Regarding later, three threaten us: So that they may thrive and flourish among men, Our souls’ slayers act as brotherly As the best men who forestall harm. Any who’d withstand the strength of them, His rest is disturbed like the swaying reed. He need not flee the assault of any other Who’s first withstood the Flesh’s caressing —       That one is falsest of five!   If we believe any man,       The worst is war-crafty woman. A woman’s will is a deadly peril, Especially if she’s hard to control; He must fix the damage for them both: He must save himself though he shelter her. By analogy to body and soul, I say also That some are found under earth Who have as his worst enemy a wife! Of idle games he ought to stay gelded       And be very fearful on earth,   Lest he fall to harm       And seize a disastrous outcome. The most disastrous home is here — Not counting hell — as I assert: So many are found to be man’s foes! The first of them I already told you about. The next: this World’s riches Would disturb us with deep sorrow; Soon are gone these idle games That make us so boisterous and bold       And cause us to be merry;   In the end they cast us very cruelly       To sin and time of sorrow. In sin and sorrow I am sunk, They pursue me so exceedingly hard. My mirth's all mingled with mourning, Nor may I conceal it any more. When we become so proud with this world That we don’t listen to life’s advice, The fighting Fiend finds us so feeble, We fall as a flower when it is withered,       Fully exiled from mankind’s Father.   Woe was assigned to him long ago       Who wishes not to please Christ at all. To please Christ we were chosen, And taught to know his power. We ought not believe that we are lost Even though we lie sunk in desires; We shall arise before our Father Even though foes defeat us at times: To save us all, he was born! When trumpets blow this summons for him,       He will bid us be among his,   And at his right hand take position       With righteous men to arise!

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