CAP. XLII. HOWE REMEMBRAUNCE MADE HIS EPYTAPHY ON HIS GRAVE.

The good dame Mercy, with dame Charite, My body buried full right humbly, In a fayre temple of olde antiquite: There was for me a dirige devoutly, And with many a masse full right solemynely; And over my grave to be in memory Remembraunce made this lytle epetaphy:

O erth! on erth, it is a wonders case, That thou art blynde and wyll not the know, Though upon erth thou hast thy dwellyng place; Yet erth at last must nedes the overthrow. Thou thinkest thou do be no erth I trow, For if thou diddest thou woldest than apply To forsake pleasure and to lerne to dye.

O earth! of earth why art thou so proud? Now what thou art call to remembraunce; Open thine eares unto my song aloude; Is not thy beaute, strength, and puyssaunce, Though becladde with cloth of pleasaunce, Very erth, and also wormes fode, When erth to erth shall turne to the blode?

And, erth, with erth why art thou so wroth? Remembre the that it vayleth right nought, For thou mayst thinke, of a perfyte trothe, If with the erth thou hast a quarell sought, Amyddes the erth there is a place ywrought, Whan erth to erth is torned properly, The for thy synne to perrysh wonderly.

And, erth, for erth why hast thou envy? And the erth upon erth to be more prosperous Than thou thy selfe fretting the inwardly? It is a sinne right foule and vicious, And unto God also full odious. Thou thinkest, I trow, there is no punishment Ordeyned for sinne by egall judgement.

Toward heven to folow on the way Thou arte full slow, and thinkest nothing That thy nature doth full sore decaye And deth right fast is to the comyng. God graunt the mercy, but no tyme enlongyng; Whan thou hast time, take tyme and space, Whan time is past, lost is the tyme of grace.

And whan erth to erth is nexte to reverte, And nature low in the last age, Of erthly treasure erth doth sette his herte Insaciately upon covetyse to rage; He thynketh not his lyfe shall asswage, His good is his God, with his great ryches, He thinketh not for to leve it doutles.

The pomped clerkes with foles delicious Erth often fedeth with corrupt glotony; And nothing with werkes vertuous The soule doth fede ryght well ententifly, But without mesure full inordinatly The body lyveth, and wyll not remember Howe erth to erth must his strength surrender.

The vyle carkes set upon a fyre Doth often haunte the syne of lechery, Fulfyllyng the foule carnall desyre: Thus erth with erth is corrupt mervaylously, And erth on erth wyll nothing purify, Till erth to erth be nere subverted, For erth with erth is so perverted.

O mortall folke! you may beholde and se Howe I lye here, sometime a myghty knyght; The end of joye and all prosperite Is deth at last, through his course and myght; After the day there cometh the derke night; For though the day be never so longe, At last the belles ringeth to evensonge.

And my selfe called La Graunde Amoure, Seking adventure in the worldly glory, For to attayne the riches and honour, Did thinke full lytle that I should here lye, Tyll deth dyde marke me full ryght pryvely. Lo what I am! and wherto you must! Lyke as I am so shall you be all dust.

Than in your mynde inwardly despyse The bryttle worlde, so full of doublenes, With the vyle flesshe, and ryght sone aryse Out of your slepe of mortall hevynes; Subdue the devill with grace and mekenes, That after your lyfe frayle and transitory, You may than live in joye perdurably.