For sinful folk, sweet Jesus, Thou lightest from the high house; Poor and low thou wert for us. Thine heart's love thou sendest us. Jesu, therefore beseech I thee Thy sweet love thou grant me; That I thereto worthy be, Make me worthy that art so free. _thou that art._ Jesu, thine help at my ending! And in that dreadful out-wending, _going forth of the spirit._ Send my soul good weryyng, _guard._ That I ne dread none evil thing. I shall next present a short lyric, displaying more of art than this last, giving it now in the old form, and afterwards in a new one, that my reader may see both how it looks in its original dress, and what it means. Wynter wakeneth al my care, Nou this leves waxeth bare, Ofte y sike ant mourne sare, _sigh; sore._ When hit cometh in my thoht Of this worldes joie, how hit goth al to noht. Now hit is, ant now hit nys, _it is not._ Also hit ner nere y-wys,[9] That moni mon seith soth hit ys,[10] Al goth bote Godes wille, Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle. _though it pleases us ill._ Al that gren me graueth grene,[11] Nou hit faleweth al by-dene; _grows yellow: speedily._ Jhesu, help that hit be sene, _seen._ Ant shild us from helle; For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.[12] I will now give a modern version of it, in which I have spoiled the original of course, but I hope as little as well may be. Winter wakeneth all my care; Now the trees are waxing bare; Oft my sighs my grief declare[13] When it comes into my thought Of this world's joy, how it goes all to nought. Now it is, and now 'tis not-- As it ne'er had been, I wot. Hence many say--it is man's lot: All goeth but God's will; We all die, though we like it ill. Green about me grows the grain; Now it yelloweth all again: Jesus, give us help amain, And shield us from hell; For when or whither I go I cannot tell