What meane ye gyders of Christis herytage
Shall ye neuer leue this your deuowrynge mynde
Shall ye no tyme your couytyse asswage
Whiche in goddes seruyce your hartis sore doth blynde
Let this fals traytour no place amonge you fynde
Graunt hym no rowne in churche nor in quere.
For this is sure ye shall all leue behynde
We haue no Cyte, nor place abydynge here
* * * * *
Of them that prolonge from day to day
to amende themselfe.
[Illustration: He that cras cras syngeth with the crowe
Deferrynge the tyme of his amendement
Amonge our folys, in this our shyp shall rowe
For his presumpcion, dull mynde and blynde intent
What knowe these folys whether god omnypotent
Wyll graunt them to lyue vntyll another day.
Wherfore we ought to mende vs whyle we may.]
If vnto any almyghty god doth sende
From heuen aboue by inspyracion dyuyne
Wyll and gode mynde his synnes to amende
And with his grace his thoughtes enlumyne
If that synner wyll nat therto enclyne
But doth dyffer and dryue frome day to day
A fole he is, no wyse man wyll denay
Yet many folowe this inconuenience
And knowynge theyr owne vyce, and lyfe full of ordure
The payne therof, and howe euery offence
And synne is punysshed of eche creature
Also they knowe that theyr deth is vnsure
And dye they must knowynge no houre nor space
Yet synne they styll, nat receyuynge this grace
They folowe the crowes cry to theyr great sorowe
Cras cras cras to morowe we shall amende
And if we mende nat than, than shall we the next morowe
Outher shortly after, we shall no more offende
Amende mad fole whan god this grace doth sende
He is vnwyse whiche trustes the crowes songe
And that affermyth that he shall lyue so longe
Syns deth (as I haue sayde) is so vnstable
Wherfore we ought alway vs to prouyde
And mende our lyfe and synne abhomynable
For though that thou be hole at the euyn tyde
Thou knowest nat sure that thou shall here abyde
Untyll the morne but if thou dye in that space
It shall be to late for the to cry cras cras
Syns it is in thy power that thou may
Amende thy selfe whan god inspyreth the
Why shalt thou tary vnto another day
The longer tary the lesse apt shalt thou be.
In olde sores is grettest ieopardye
Whan costome and vse is tourned to nature
It is right harde to leue: I the ensure
Therfore if that thou lewdly fall in syn
By thy frayle flesshe, and the fals fendes trayne
Take nat the vse, contynue nat therin
But by confessyon shortly ryse agayne
Synne alway thretenyth vnto the doer, payne
And grutche of conscience with moche thought and wo
Yet alwaye ar we redy and prone therto
Mannys lyfe on erth is euyn a chyualry
Agaynst our flesshe fyghtyng whiche often doth vs shame
Also the deuyll our goostly ennemy
On his parte labours to get vs in his frame
Thus oft we fall, and than our foly blame
Repentynge sore, and wyllynge to refrayne
But within an houre we fall therto agayne
Thus euer to vyce ar we redy and prone
The gyftis of grace we clene from vs exclude
We haue great cause sore to complayne and mone
We leue that thynge (our myndes ar so rude)
That myght vs gyde to helth and beatytude
Thus our owne foly, and our owne blynde madnes
Us often ledyth vnto great wretchydnes
And if it fortune, that at any tyme
Within our myndes we purpose stedfastly
For to confesse our synne, excesse, or cryme
Agayne our thought is changyd by and by
Away than ren we with the crowys crye
With one cras, to morowe, perauenture twayne
Without regarde had, vnto infernall payne
But in the meane space if that deth vntretable
Arrest the with his mace, fyers and cruell
And for thy synne and lyfe abhomynable
By iustyce damme thy soule for euer to hell
Than woldest thou gladly (If thou myght) do well
But there is no grace but doloure payne and sorowe
Than is to late to crye cras cras to morowe