The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne.Th’ assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge,The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne;Al this mene I be love.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,Cometh al this new corn fro yeer to yere;And out of olde bokes, in good feith,Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

Soun is noght but air ybroken,And every speche that is spoken,Loud or privee, foul or fair,In his substaunce is but air;For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke,Right so soun is air ybroke.

For I am shave as neigh as any frere.But yit I praye unto youre curteisye:Beeth hevy again, or elles moot I die.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaungeWithinne a thousand yeer, and wordes thoThat hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straungeUs thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,And spedde as wel in love as men now do;Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

For which he wex a litel red for shame,Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen,That to beholde it was a noble game,How sobreliche he caste doun his yen.Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen,And let so softe it in her herte sinkeThat to herself she seyde, “Who yaf me drinke?”

Or as an ook comth of a litel spir,So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente,Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.

It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake.

For of fortunes sharp adversiteeThe worst kynde of infortune is this,A man to han ben in prosperitee,And it remembren, whan it passed is.

Oon ere it herde, at tothir out it wente.