The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day By Day.

Whoso Will Pray, He Must Fast And Be Clean, And Fat His Soul, And Make His Body Lean.

At The Ches With Me She (fortune) Gan To Pleye; With Her False Draughts (pieces) Dyvers/she Staal On Me, And Took Away My Fers. And When I Sawgh My Fers Awaye, Allas! I Kouthe No Lenger Playe.

Filth And Old Age, I'm Sure You Will Agree, Are Powerful Wardens Upon Chastity.

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.