| Ech day me comëth tydinges thre, For wel swithë sore ben he: The on is that Ich shal hennë, That other that Ich not whennë, The thriddë is my mestë carë, That Ich not whider Ich shal farë. |
Every day I am plagued by three thoughts– A heavy weight on my soul. First, that my time is finite Second, I know not when I will depart But it is the third that torments me most That there is no way to know where I’ll go |
| Whan the turuf is thy tour, And thy pit is thy bour, Thy fel and thy whitë throtë Shullen wormës to notë. What helpëth thee thennë |
When the turf is your tower, And the ground your bower, Your white throat, your skin Consumed by worms from within. What help can you hope for then? |
| Ich have y-don al myn youth, Oftë, ofte, and ofte; Longe y-loved and yerne y-beden – Ful dere it is y-bought! |
All of my youth I have done it, Often, often, and often. I have loved long I have yearned zealously– And what grief it has brought! |
| Foulës in the frith, The fishës in the flod, And I mon waxë wod; Much sorwe I walkë with For beste of bon and blod. |
The fowles in the forest, the fishes in the flood. And I moan, I grow mad And walk with great sorrow, for I am a beast of bone and blood. |