mennes vnderstanding by a solempne, worthy, and dis|crete clerke, Rychard Hampole, and ys cleped pety Job, and ys full profitable to stere synners to compunccion.
(1)
Parce michi, domine, nichil enim sunt dies mei.
Lyef lord, my soule thow spare,
The sothe I sey now sykerly,
That my dayes nought they are;
ffor though I be bryght of ble,
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The fayrest man that ys oughware,
Yet shall my fayrenesse fade and fle,
And I shalbe wormes ware.
. . . . . [no gap in the MS.]
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And when my body ys all bare,
And on a bere brought shal be,
I nat what I may synge thare
But Parce michi, domine.
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(2)
Quid est homo, quia magnificas eum?
What ys a man, wete I wolde,
That magnifyeth hymself alway,
But a marke, made in molde,
Of a clyngyng clot of clay?
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Thow shopest vs for that we shulde
Haue ben in blysse for euer and ay;
But nowe, allas, bothe yong and olde
fforyetyñ hit bothe nyght and day.
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A, good lord, what shall I say,
I that stande in thys degre?
I wote nothyng that helpe may
But Parce michi, domine.
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(3)
Aut quid opponis erga eum cor tuum, visitas eum diliculo, et subito probas illum?
Or why puttist thow thyn hert ayenst man
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That thow hast so dere bought?
Thow vysyteste hym, and art full fayne
Sodenly to preue yef he be ought.
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