75vb]    5 10 15

¶ Wynter wakeneth al my care; Nou this leves waxeth bare. Ofte Y sike ant mourne sare    When hit cometh in my thoht       Of this worldes joie:          Hou hit geth al to noht! Nou hit is, ant nou hit nys, Also hit ner nere, ywys! That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:    Al goth bote Godes wille;       Alle we shule deye,          Thath us like ylle. Al that gren me graveth grene;      Nou hit faleweth al bydene. Jesu, help that hit be sene,    Ant shild us from helle,       For Y not whider Y shal,          Ne hou longe her duelle.

¶ Winter awakens all my sorrow; Now these leaves grow barren. Often I sigh and sadly mourn    When it enters into my thought       Regarding this world’s joy:          How it goes all to nought! Now it is, and now it isn’t, As if it had never been, indeed! What many a man says, true it is:    All passes except God’s will;       We all shall die,          Though we dislike it. All that seed men bury unripe;      Now it withers all at once. Jesus, help that this be known,    And shield us from hell,       For I know not whither I’ll go,          Nor how long here dwell.

(t-note) (see note); (t-note)