A. C. Cawley
Almyghty God, I am here at your wyll,
Your commaundement to fulfyll.
Go thou to Eueryman
And shewe hym, in my name,
A pylgrymage he must on hym take,
Whiche he in no wyse may escape;
And that he brynge with hym a sure rekenynge
Without delay or ony taryenge.
Lorde, I wyll in the worlde go renne ouer-all
And cruelly out-serche both grete and small.
Euery man wyll I beset that lyueth beestly
Out of Goddes lawes, and dredeth not foly.
He that loueth rychess I wyll stryke with my darte,
His syght to blynde, and fro heuen to departe—
Excepte that almes be his good frende—
In hell for to dwell, worlde without ende.
Loo, yonder I se Eueryman walkynge.
Full lytell he thynketh on my comynge;
His mynde is on flesshely lustes and his treasure,
And grete payne it shall cause hym to endure
Before the Lorde, Heuen Kynge.
Eueryman, stande styll! Whyder arte thou goynge
Thus gayly? / Hast thou thy Maker forgete?