'I, who will already be dust by your time, have made mention of you in this book'

Henry I and Matilda, in a 14th-century genealogical roll (BL Royal MS. 14 B VI)

My latest column for History Today can be read online here. It was prompted by recent news about archaeological investigations at the site of Reading Abbey, which may result (among other things) in finding the tomb of Henry I.

I was interested to hear about this, partly because I explored Reading properly for the first time last year and was very struck by how the medieval and modern sit side-by-side in the town. The date of Henry I's death, 1135, also gave me a good excuse to quote a justly famous passage from Henry of Huntingdon's Historia Anglorum:

This is the year which holds the writer: the thirty fifth year of the reign of the glorious and invincible Henry, king of the English. The sixty-ninth year from the arrival in England, in our time, of the supreme Norman race. The 703rd year from the coming of the English into England. The 2,265th year from the coming of the Britons to settle in the same island. The 5,317th year from the beginning of the world. The year of grace 1135.

This, then, is the year from which the writer of the History wished his age to be reckoned by posterity... this computation will show what point in Time we have reached. Already one millennium has passed since the Lord's incarnation. We are leading our lives, or - to put it more accurately - we are holding back death, in what is the 135th year of the second millennium.

I often think of that opening: Hic est annus qui comprehendit scriptorem, 'This is the year which holds the writer'. While the present year may enclose the historian's body, it can't limit his imagination; and so Henry casts his thoughts a thousand years backwards and forwards from his own time:

Let us, however, think about what has become of those who lived in the first millennium around this time, around the 135th year. In those days, of course, Antoninus ruled Rome with his brother Lucius Aurelius, and Pius the Roman was pope. Lucius, who was of British birth, ruled this island, and not long after this time, while those emperors were still in power, he was the first of the British to become a Christian, and through him the whole of Britain was converted to faith in Christ. For this he is worthy of eternal record.

But who were the other people who lived throughout the countries of the world at that time? Let our present kings and dukes, tyrants and princes, church leaders and earls, commanders and governors, magistrates and sheriffs, warlike and strong men - let them tell me: who were in command and held office at that time? And you, admirable Bishop Alexander, to whom I have dedicated our history, tell me what you know of the bishops of that time.

I ask myself: tell me, Henry, author of this History, tell me, who were the archdeacons of that time? What does it matter whether they were individually noble or ignoble, renowned or unknown, praiseworthy or disreputable, exalted or cast down, wise or foolish? If any of them undertook some labour for the sake of praise and glory, when now no record of him survives any more than of his horse or his ass, why then did the wretch torment his spirit in vain? What benefit was it to them, who came to this?

Now I speak to you who will be living in the third millennium, around the 135th year. Consider us, who at this moment seem to be renowned, because, miserable creatures, we think highly of ourselves. Reflect, I say, on what has become of us. Tell me, I pray, what gain has it been to us to have been great or famous? We had no fame at all, except in God. For if we are famed now in Him, we shall still be famed in your time, as lords of heaven and earth, worthy of praise with our Lord God, by the thousands of thousands who are in the heavens. I, who will already be dust by your time, have made mention of you in this book, so long before you are to be born, so that if - as my soul strongly desires - it shall come about that this book comes into your hands, I beg you, in the incomprehensible mercy of God, to pray for me, poor wretch. In the same way, may those who will walk with God in the fourth and fifth millennia pray and petition for you, if indeed mortal man survives so long.

Henry of Huntingdon, The History of the English People 1000-1154, trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 2002), pp.118-9.

Henry I, our historian's namesake and one of his fixed points of temporal reference here, died on 1 December 1135. He was buried at Reading Abbey, which he had founded, and which subsequently became one of the richest and most powerful religious houses in the country. After a later King Henry wrought his usual destruction, the abbey church was largely demolished, the royal founder's tomb was lost, and the remaining buildings of the extensive site fell into ruins. You can read more about the current state of the ruins and future plans for them at this site.

I have to confess that despite living not far from Reading, until last year I'd never really considered it somewhere worth visiting from a historical point of view - I'm afraid if I thought of it at all, it was probably as a place to change trains! But I was wrong: it has some very interesting features, despite its overly present major roads and rather bleak modern town centre. For one thing, it has an excellent museum, which devotes plenty of space to the story of medieval Reading and the relics of the abbey (and the later history of the area too, of course). It has on display some fantastic carved stones from the abbey, including this, which is said to be the earliest surviving depiction of the Coronation of the Virgin Mary:

It dates to the early part of the twelfth century, the time of the abbey's foundation, and in context has fascinating significance in light of Reading's royal connections (on which see this article). The museum's other treasures include a full-size (!) replica of the Bayeux Tapestry, made in 1885 by the ladies of the Leek Embroidery Society. You can read about its story here - it's a quirky but wonderful tribute to Victorian medievalism, and well worth celebrating in the year which holds us, the 950th anniversary of 1066.

Walking around the abbey site itself, it's possible to get a very striking sense of the space occupied by the abbey and its environs. Part of the outer court of the abbey is still (as it would have been in the Middle Ages) a public space, now a park overlooked by office buildings:

(That one's called the Blade. It's Reading's most noticeable feature if you pass through on the train...)

One corner of the park is occupied by the little Victorian church of St James, which was designed by A. W. N. Pugin and built in 1837-40. Its buildings overlap with the site of the abbey church, which would have been more than three times the size of this building.

The dedication reflects a link with the medieval abbey: Reading Abbey possessed the hand of St James, an important relic and a great attraction to pilgrims. St James' claims to be the only Catholic church in England to stand on the site of a pre-Reformation abbey.

Just next door, as it were, are the standing ruins of the abbey. They were closed to the public when I was there (for safety reasons; you can take a tour, though).

There are parts remaining of the chapter house and the cloister, where we might imagine the monks humming 'Summer is icumen in...

There's also the abbey gatehouse, where Jane Austen was briefly at school:

Behind the gatehouse, still within the former precincts of the abbey, the scene quickly gets less picturesque: office buildings, chain restaurants, Reading Crown Court. Hidden among them is the abbey's mill stream, and a few fragments of older buildings.

This is a bit of the old abbey mill, stranded among skyscrapers.

It stands right at the foot of the Blade - as sharp a juxtaposition of old and new as you could ever wish to see.

I was there on a Saturday afternoon, so these buildings were all empty and a little bit ghostly; it was a relief to get away from that glaring glass, back to the ruins and the nearby river. The riverside walk is now a memorial to Oscar Wilde, whose Reading Gaol stood next to the ruins of the abbey.

Away from the abbey itself, Reading is well-provided with churches. I visited the town during the Heritage Open Days weekend, so they were all open and very friendly and welcoming (that's next week this year, should you wish to repeat my experience!).

This is the church of St Giles, whose vicar was killed alongside the last Abbot of Reading, Hugh Faringdon, before the abbey gatehouse in 1539. The present-day church commemorates him as a martyr.

In the centre of town is St Mary's, which they call Reading Minster. The church guide says 'Tradition has it that St Birinus founded a small chapel on the site of St Mary's church in the 7th century', which would make it one of the oldest churches in the area. Tradition also says that a nunnery was founded here by Queen Ælfthryth, wife of King Edgar, in penance for her involvement in the murder of her stepson, young Edward the Martyr. Ælfthryth was a patron of several religious communities for women (whether in penance or not it's not easy to say), and this takes Reading's royal connections back another 150 years or so before Henry I.

St Mary's inherited various furnishings from the abbey after it was closed, including doorways, pillars, and roof timbers. It also has a gorgeous checkerboard tower:

It's right in the middle of town, and the doors were flung wide open, so that passers-by were freely wandering in and out. Both these churches (and St James' too) felt loved and cared-for, in their different ways, and very much alive - one had a wedding going on, another had many little candles flickering before a series of shrines, another a small group praying quietly together. It really is remarkable to think about such things going on in these places, century after century, as royal abbeys and empires rise and fall.

'Thou shalt not, man, abyde here ay'

Solomon (BL Royal 1 E IX, f. 163v)

Hec sunt verba prophetica:
Amittes mundi prospera.

O man, whiche art the erthe take froo,
Ayene into erthe thou shalt goo;
The wyse man in his lore seith soo:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Bysshop or emperoure though that thou be,
Kynge, prince or duke of high degree,
Emperesse or quene or lady free,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Though of richesse thou haue thy wille,
Of mete and drinke having thy fille,
When dredefull dethe shall come the tille,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Job seith: 'Good Lorde, of me haue myende,
For why my lyfe is but a wyende:
To erth I shall ayene by kyende.'
Amittes mundi prospera.

Thou shalt not, man, abyde here ay,
But as a floure shalt fade away;
Therfore to the I dare wele say:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Criste graunt vs grace that we come may
To heven blis, that lasteth aye,
Where is no nyght, but ever day
Et infinita prospera.

This text comes from a manuscript of poems and carols (now Cambridge University Library MS. Ee 1.12) which was compiled by a Franciscan friar, James Ryman, in the last decade of the fifteenth century. Carols from Ryman's collection have featured on this blog several times before, most recently 'Behold and see', and I've been intending to post this one for a little while, as appropriate for this season of Lent. After watching the service for the reburial of Richard III this morning, it feels even more apt. The poem draws on Lenten texts - the 'wise man' of the first verse is Solomon, in an allusion to Ecclesiastes 3:20, and the reference to Job comes from Job 7:7 - but its theme is almost ubiquitous in medieval literature; some of my favourite expressions of it can be found under this tag. James Ryman was compiling his manuscript at Greyfriars in Canterbury c.1492, some seven years after his brother Franciscans had given Richard III his first burial in Leicester; but no fifteenth-century reader of this poem would have needed civil wars or bloody battles to remind them that earthly power is fleeting, and that worldly prosperity passes away from kings and commoners alike.

Hec sunt verba prophetica:
Amittes mundi prospera.

O man, which art the earth taken fro, [from]
Again into earth thou shalt go;
The wise man in his lore saith so:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Bishop or emperor though thou be,
King, prince, or duke of high degree,
Empress or queen or lady free,
Amittes mundi prospera.

Though of riches thou have thy will,
Of meat and drink having thy fill,
When fearsome death shall come thee till, [to]
Amittes mundi prospera.

Job saith: 'Good Lord, of me have mind,
For my life is but a wind;
To earth I shall again by kynde.' [according to my nature]
Amittes mundi prospera.

Thou shalt not, man, abide here aye,
But as a flower shalt fade away;
Therefore to thee I dare well say:
Amittes mundi prospera.

Christ grant us grace that we come may
To heaven's bliss, that lasteth aye,
Where is no night, but ever day
Et infinita prospera.

Job in prosperity and wretchedness (BL Royal 1 E IX, f. 136v)

The sermon given at today's reinterment was, as is entirely fitting, a sermon for the twenty-first century - focusing on 'harmony in place of conflict', 'mutual respect and honour', 'the “we” society rather than the “me” society'. It's interesting to speculate what a fifteenth-century preacher would have said if called upon to preach on the same occasion. The situation might have seemed to offer almost too obvious a moral lesson, a memento mori nearly too good to be true: a king who strove so hard to gain and keep power, reduced in the end to nothing more than a skeleton in a grave. I wonder if our hypothetical medieval preacher, looking out over all today's civic pomp and pageantry, would have talked about the vanity of earthly ambition and the emptiness of worldly power - if his sermon would have sounded like Ryman's poem, or 'Earth upon earth':

Erthe oute of erthe is wondirly wroghte,
Erthe has geten one erthe a dignite of noghte,
Erthe appon erthe hase sett alle his thoghte
How that erthe upon erthe may be heghe broghte.

Erthe upon erthe wolde be a kinge
Bot how erthe to erthe sall, thinkes he no thinge.
When erthe bredes erthe and his rentes home bringe
Thane shall erthe of erthe have full harde parting.

'Winter wakeneth all my care'

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoght
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al by dene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

The poem is from BL Harley MS. 2253, and must be the most apt poem ever written for the last days of November. This would be a literal translation:

Winter awakens all my sorrow,
Now the leaves grow bare.
Often I sigh and mourn sorely
When it comes into my thoughts
Of this world's joy, how it all goes to nothing.

Now it is, and now it is not,
As if it had never been, truly.
What many people say, it is the truth:
All passes but God's will.
We all shall die, though it please us ill.

All the grass which grows up green,
Now it fades all together.
Jesu, help this to be understood,
And shield us from hell!
For I do not know where I shall go, nor how long I shall dwell here.

A translation is inadequate, though; a lot of the power of the poem is in the rhymes, and the untranslatable negatives, especially 'Nou hit is, and nou hit nys, / Also hit ner nere, ywys'. There are some clever touches, such as the phrase waxeth bare: 'waxen' can just mean 'to become', but it usually means specifically to 'grow' (like the moon, which waxes and wanes; do we use the word in any other context now?). But when leaves fall, waxing bare, it's the exact opposite of growth; it's death and depletion.

This metaphor, life as leaf, has been on my mind lately, since my post from last year on Anglo-Saxon Autumns had a bit of a resurrection which ensures I'm regularly reminded of it (my translation from Maxims I, which I never expected anyone else to much care about, turned up in a blog with a much larger readership than mine). 'What's the life of a man, any more than a leaf?'



I love poems (and folksongs) like this - like all these medieval variations on the same theme, the brief and untrustworthy nature of earthly happiness. I always feel a little as if I have to justify blogging about them; I know most people today find them bizarre and morbid. But they're very comforting to me. The world is unstable and our security can vanish in a moment - that's an obvious fact. But all our lives we are told we can triumph over that instability, if we just work hard enough; if we save enough money, or spend enough money on whatever it is we're supposed to be buying; if we're pretty enough, or clever enough, or can convincingly pretend to be all the things we're supposed to want to be. If we can't, we're told it's our own failure. Poems like these, part of an ancient tradition drawing on the accumulated wisdom of many generations, say the opposite. Somehow, by being so upfront about the instability of life, they take the sting out of it - they show it to be a common part of human experience, not necessarily the result of individual weakness or failure. I understand why some people don't like them; if you're happy and successful, their message is easy to brush off. Many of you reading this post now are, perhaps, safely ensconced in a secure job, happily married, with a stable family and a home of your own, and you naturally don't want to worry about how those things might come to an end. But for someone like me, who may never have any of those things, lack of stability is a constant source of fear. Anxiety about the future is always pressing on my mind, and it does actually help to be told not to expect or want security:

This warlde is variabell;
Nothing therein is stable,
Asay now who so will.
Sin it is so mutable,
How shuld me be stable?
It may not be thorow skill.

Whan brome will appelles bere,
And humloke hony in fere,
Than seke rest in lond.
With men is no pees;
Ne rest in hart is, no lese,
With few be see and sond.

Or wealth:

Why is the world beloved, that fals is and vein,
Sithen that hise welthes ben uncertein?
Also soone slideth his power away
As doith a brokil pot that freish is and gay.
Truste ye rather to letters writen in th'is
Than to this wretched world, that full of sinne is.
It is fals in his beheste and right disceiveable;
It hath begiled manye men, it is so unstable.
It is rather to beleve the waveringe wind
Than the chaungeable world, that maketh men so blind.

Or beauty:

For þer nis non so strong in stour,
Fro tyme þat he ful waxen be,
From þat day forþ, euer-vch an hour,
Of his strengþe he leost a quantite;
Ne no buryde so briht in bour,
Of þritti wynter, I enseure þe,
Þat heo ne schal fade as a flour,
Luite and luite leosen hire beute.

Or love:

Al oþer loue is lych þe mone
þat wext and wanet as flour in plein,
as flour þat fayret and fawyt sone,
as day þat scwret and endt in rein.

That's the 'consolation of philosophy', isn't it?

'All earthly joy returns to pain'

An Ash Wednesday poem by the Scottish poet William Dunbar:

Off Lentren in the first mornyng,
Airly as did the day upspring,
Thus sang ane bird with voce upplane:
"All erdly joy returnis in pane.

O man, haif mynd that thow mon pas;
Remembir that thow art bot as
And sall in as return agane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Haif mynd that eild ay followis yowth;
Deth followis lyfe with gaipand mowth,
Devoring fruct and flowring grane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Welth, warldly gloir, and riche array
Ar all bot thornis laid in thy way,
Ourcoverd with flouris laid in ane trane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Come nevir yit May so fresche and grene
Bot Januar come als wod and kene;
Wes nevir sic drowth bot anis come rane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Evirmair unto this warldis joy
As nerrest air succeidis noy;
Thairfoir, quhen joy ma nocht remane,
His verry air succeidis pane.

Heir helth returnis in seiknes,
And mirth returnis in havines,
Toun in desert, forrest in plane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Fredome returnis in wrechitnes,
And trewth returnis in dowbilnes
With fenyeit wirdis to mak men fane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Vertew returnis into vyce,
And honour into avaryce;
With cuvatyce is consciens slane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane.

Sen erdly joy abydis nevir,
Wirk for the joy that lestis evir;
For uder joy is all bot vane:
All erdly joy returnis in pane."


Here's a (lightly) modernised version:

Of Lent upon the first morning,
Early as did the day up spring,
Thus sang a bird with voice so plain:
"All earthly joy returns to pain.

O man, have mind that thou must pass;
Remember that thou art but ash
And shall to ash return again:
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Have mind that age ever follows youth;
Death follows life with gaping mouth,
Devouring fruit and flowering grain:
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Wealth, worldly glory, and rich array
Are all but thorns laid in thy way,
O'er-covered with flowers laid in a train: [trap]
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Came never yet May so fresh and green
But January came again, wild and keen;
There was never drought but once again came rain:
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Evermore, unto this world's joy,
As next thing ever succeeds noy; [trouble]
Therefore, when joy may not remain,
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Here health returns to sickness,
And mirth returns to heaviness,
Town into desert, forest into plain:
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Freedom returns to slavery,
And truth returns to treachery,
With feigned words to make men fain: [to please men]
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Virtue returns again to vice,
And honour into avarice;
With covetousness is conscience slain:
All earthly joy returns to pain.

Since earthly joy abides never,
Work for the joy that lasts forever;
For other joy is all but vain:
All earthly joy returns to pain."


The word 'return' is the keynote of the poem; it recalls the central message of Ash Wednesday, 'Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return'. Dunbar also wrote a poem where that phrase is the refrain:

Memento, homo, quod cinis es:
Think, man, thow art bot erd and as;
Lang heir to dwell nathing thow pres,
For as thow come sa sall thow pas.
Lyk as ane schaddow in ane glas
Hyne glydis all thy tyme that heir is;
Think, thocht thy bodye ware of bras,
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Worthye Hector and Hercules,
Forcye Achill and strong Sampsone,
Alexander of grit nobilnes,
Meik David and fair Absolone
Hes playit thair pairtis, and all are gone
At will of God that all thing steiris:
Think, man, exceptioun thair is none,
Sed tu in cinerem reverteris.

Thocht now thow be maist glaid of cheir,
Fairest and plesandest of port,
Yit may thow be within ane yeir
Ane ugsum, uglye tramort.
And sen thow knawis thy tyme is schort
And in all houre thy lyfe in weir is,
Think, man, amang all uthir sport,
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Thy lustye bewté and thy youth
Sall feid as dois the somer flouris;
Syne sall thee swallow with his mouth
The dragone death that all devouris.
No castell sall thee keip, nor touris,
Bot he sall seik thee with thy feiris.
Thairfore remembir at all houris
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Thocht all this warld thow did posseid,
Nocht eftir death thow sall posses,
Nor with thee tak bot thy guid deid
Quhen thow dois fro this warld thee dres.
So speid thee, man, and thee confes
With humill hart and sobir teiris,
And sadlye in thy hart inpres
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Thocht thow be taklit nevir so sure,
Thow sall in deathis port arryve,
Quhair nocht for tempest may indure
Bot ferslye all to speiris dryve.
Thy Ransonner with woundis fyve
Mak thy plycht anker and thy steiris
To hald thy saule with Him on lyve,
Cum tu in cinerem reverteris.


And a modernised version:

Memento, homo, quod cinis es:
Think, man, thou art but earth and ash;
Long here to dwell do not thou press,
For as thou come, so shall thou pass.
Like as a shadow in the glass
Hence glides all thy time that here is;
Think, though thy body were of brass,
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Worthy Hector and Hercules,
Powerful Achilles and strong Sampson,
Alexander of great nobleness,
Meek David and fair Absolom
Have played their parts, and all are gone
At the will of God that all things steers:
Think, man, exception there is none,
Sed tu in cinerem reverteris.

Though now thou be most glad of cheer,
Fairest and pleasantest of port, [bearing]
Yet may thou be within one year
A loathsome, ugly tramort. [corpse]
And since thou know thy time is short
And in all hours thy life in doubt is,
Think, man, among all other sport,
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Thy lusty beauty and thy youth
Shall fade as do the summer flowers;
Then shall thee swallow with his mouth
The dragon death that all devours.
No castle shall thee keep, nor towers,
But he shall seek thee with thy feiris. [companions]
Therefore remember at all hours
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Though all this world thou did possess,
Naught after death thou shall possess,
Nor with thee take but thy good deeds
When thou must from this world thee dress. [prepare]
So speed thee, man, and thee confess
With humble heart and sober tears,
And solemnly in thy heart impress
Quod tu in cinerem reverteris.

Though thou be rigged never so sure,
Thou shall in death's port arrive,
Where none the tempest may endure
Which fiercely all to pieces drives.
Thy Ransomer with his wounds five
Make thy main anchor and thy stars
To hold thy soul with him in life,
Cum tu in cinerem reverteris.

Transience: A November Poem, not by Thomas Hardy

I apologise in advance for posting such a depressing poem: it just has a very memorable first line, and is so thoroughly appropriate for November.  It also reminds me irresistibly of this Thomas Hardy poem, and I like to imagine Hardy and the anonymous poet who wrote this getting together for a jolly chat...

The poem is from Harley MS. 2253, a manuscript of poetry compiled in the fourteenth century.


Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoght
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al by dene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

That is:


Winter awakens all my sorrow,
Now the leaves grow bare.
Often I sigh and mourn sorely
When it comes into my mind
Of this world's joy, how it all goes to nothing.

Now it is, and now it is not,
As if it had never been, truly.
What many people say, it is the truth:
All passes but God's will.
We shall all die, though it please us ill.

All the grass grows up green,
Now it fades all together.
Jesu, help this to be understood,
And shield us from hell!
For I do not know where I shall go, nor how long I shall dwell here.

When broom bears apples and hemlock bears honey

This is a poem or song from a fifteenth-century manuscript of songs and carols, which includes among many others this carol of the Virgin Mary, and the Annunciation carol 'Tidings true'. Today's poem is on a very conventional theme, the untrustworthiness and instability of the world, but this is a particularly neat expression of the idea. The rhetorical impossibilia are my favourite bit, promising that true rest can be found in this world only 'when broom bears apples and hemlock bears honey'.


Wold God that men might sene
Hertes whan they bene,
For thinges that bene untrew.
If it be as I wene,
Thing that semeth grene
Is ofte faded of hew.


Will is tak for reson;
Trew love is full geson;
No man sett be shame.
Trost is full of treson;
Eche man oderes cheson;
No man him seilfe will blame.

This warlde is variabell;
Nothing therein is stable,
Asay now who so will.
Sin it is so mutable,
How shuld me be stable?
It may not be thorow skill.

Whan brome will appelles bere,
And humloke hony in fere,
Than seke rest in lond.
With men is no pees;
Ne rest in hart is, no lese,
With few be see and sond.

Sithen there is no rest,
I hold it for the best,
God to be our frend,
He that is our Lord,
Deliver us out with his word,
And graunt us a good ende!

A rough translation:

Would to God that men could see
Hearts as they really be,
As things that are untrue;
For if it be as I ween, [believe]
Things that seem green [i.e. fresh]
Are often faded in hue.

Self-will is mistaken for reason;
True love is very scarce;
No one cares for shame.
Trust is full of treason;
Every man accuses someone else,
But no one himself will blame.

This world is variable,
Nothing therein is stable;
Let anyone test it who will.
Since it is so mutable,
How can anyone be stable? [secure]
Reason says this cannot be.

When a broom-bush bears apples,
And hemlock bears honey,
Then look for rest in this world.
Among men is no peace;
Rest in heart belongs to few,
Truly, by sea or by shore.

Since there is no rest,
I hold it for the best
To take God as our friend.
May he who is our Lord
Deliver us by his word,
And grant us a good end.

God resting (BL Egerton 1894)

On Transience, V: Despise the World

Fortune's wheel in a medieval wall-painting at Rochester Cathedral

Why is the world beloved, that fals is and vein,
Sithen that hise welthes ben uncertein?

Also soone slideth his power away
As doith a brokil pot that freish is and gay.

Truste ye rather to letters writen in th'is
Than to this wretched world, that full of sinne is.

It is fals in his beheste and right disceiveable;
It hath begiled manye men, it is so unstable.

It is rather to beleve the waveringe wind
Than the chaungeable world, that maketh men so blind.

Whether thou slepe othere wake thou shalt finde it fals,
Bothe in his bisynesses and in his lustes als.

Telle me where is Salamon, sumtime a kinge riche?
Or Sampson in his strenkethe, to whom was no man liche?

Or the fair man, Absolon, merveilous in chere?
Or the duke, Jonatas, a well-beloved fere?

Where is become Cesar, that lord was of al?
Or the riche man cloithd in purpur and in pal?

Telle me where is Tullius, in eloquence so swete?
Or Aristotle the philisophre with his wit so grete?

Where ben these worithy that weren here toforen?
Boithe kinges and bishopes her power is all loren.

All these grete princes with her power so hiye
Ben vanished away in twinkeling of an iye.

The joye of this wretched world is a short feeste:
It is likned to a shadewe that abideth leeste.

And yit it draweth man from Heveneriche blis,
And ofte time maketh him to sinne and do amis.

Thou that art but wormes mete, powder and dust,
To enhance thysilf in pride sette not thy lust.

For thou woost not today that thou shalt live tomorewe,
Therfore do thou evere weel, and thanne shalt thou not sorewe.

It were full joyful and swete lordship to have,
If so that lordship miyite a man fro deeth save.

But, for as miche a man muste die at the laste,
It is no worship but a charge lordship to taste.

Calle nothing thine owen, therfore, that thou maist her lese:
That the world hath lent thee, eft he wolde it sese!

Sette thine herte in Heven above and thenke what joye is there,
And thus to despise the world I rede that thou lere.


This is a fifteenth-century English translation of a medieval Latin poem known as 'Cur mundus militat'. The ideas and images of the poem are extremely common, found in countless medieval texts - the world is transient, earthly joy is fickle, even great men die, Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?, and so on. I suppose all we can credit this English poet with are the rhymes, which are sometimes right on the border between genius and tenuous (especially 'writen in th'is/full of sinne is'). Nonetheless, there's a directness about this poem which appeals to me.

Here's a picture of one manuscript of this poem; it survives in numerous manuscripts (there's a list here), which indicates the popularity of this kind of thing in the Middle Ages. You have to admit the poem has a point: if even Tullius (Cicero) and Aristotle are no more, it says, what hope for the rest of us?

The text above is taken from Medieval English Lyrics, ed. R. T. Davies (London, 1978), pp. 173-5. This is my modernised version:

Why is the world beloved, which false is and vain,
When its wealth is so uncertain? [unstable]

As soon slideth its power away
As doth a brittle pot that is fresh and gay.

Trust ye rather to letters written in the ice
Than to this wretched world, that full of sin is.

It is false in its promises and right deceitful;
It hath beguiled many men, it is so unstable.

It is better to believe the wavering wind
Than the changeable world, that maketh men so blind.

Whether thou sleep or wake thou shalt find it false,
Both in its business and in its pleasures als. [also]

Tell me, where is Solomon, at one time a king rich? [great]
Or Samson in his strength, to whom no man was like? [equal]

Or the fair man, Absalom, so beautiful in chere? [appearance]
Or the duke, Jonathan, a well-beloved fere? [friend]

What has become of Caesar, who was lord of all?
Or the rich man clothed in purple and in pall?

Tell me where is Tullius, in eloquence so sweet?
Or Aristotle the philosopher with his wit so great?

Where are these worthies who were here before?
Both kings and bishops, their power is all loren. [lost]

All these great princes with their power so high
Are vanished away in the twinkling of an eye.

The joy of this wretched world is a short feast:
It is likened to a shadow that abideth the least.

And yet it draweth man from heavenly bliss,
And oft-time maketh him to sin and do amiss.

Thou that art but worm's meat, powder and dust,
To enrich thyself in pride set not thy lust.

For thou knowest not today that thou shalt live tomorrow;
Therefore do thou ever well, and then shalt thou not sorrow.

It would be full joyful and sweet lordship to have,
If it could be that lordship might a man from death save.

But, for as much as a man must die at the last,
It is no honour, but a burden, lordship to taste.

Call nothing thine own, therefore, that thou mayest here lose:
What the world hath lent thee, back he will it seize!

Set thine heart in Heaven above and think what joy is there;
And thus to despise the world I advise that thou lere. [learn]


In a similar vein, see the rest of my series 'On Transience':
Where beth they biforen us weren?
Erthe oute of erthe is wondirly wroghte
'Think on yesterday'
'This world fareth as a fantasy'

On Transience, IV: "Think on Yesterday"

These are some verses from a long fourteenth-century poem with the first line "Whon men beth muriest at her mele" ('when men are merriest at their meal'), from the Vernon MS. It's on essentially the same theme as this poem from the same manuscript, though with a less philosophical bent: the subject is the changeableness of the world, and the foolishness of trusting to it. The fifth of these verses has often been justly praised; it reminds me of what Walter Hilton says about people who seek worldly riches being like children running after butterflies, who fall and hurt themselves because they're not watching where they're going. And also it reminds me of Peter Pan, but that's not really the same point...

You can find the original, with all its verses, here. I just picked the verses I like best.


1. Whon Men beoþ muriest at heor Mele,
wiþ mete & drink to maken hem glade,
wiþ worschip & wiþ worldlich wele
Þei ben so set, þey conne not sade;
Þei haue no deynte for to dele
Wiþ þinges þat ben deuoutli made,
Þei weene heor honour & heore hele
Schal euer laste & neuer diffade.
But in heor hertes I wolde þei hade,
Whon þei gon ricchest men on array,
Hou sone þat god hem may de-grade,
And sum tyme þenk on ȝusterday.

[When men are merriest at their meal, with meat and drink to make them glad, in high honour and worldly prosperity, they are so placed that they think nothing of serious things.  They have no fondness for thinking of serious matters; they believe their honour and their health shall last forever and never fade.  I wish they would hold in their hearts, when they are men richest in array, how soon God can bring them to nothing again - and sometimes think on yesterday.]

2. Þis day, as leef we may be liht
Wiþ al þe murþes þat men may vise,
To Reuele wiþ þis buirdes briht,
Vche mon gayest on his gyse;
At þe last, hit draweþ to niht,
Þat slep most make his Maystrise.
Whon þat he haþ ikud his miht,
Þe morwe he boskeþ vp to rise,
Þen al draweþ hem to fantasyse;
Wher he is bi-comen, con no mon say,—
And ȝif heo wuste þei weore ful wise,—
ffor al is tornd to ȝesterday.

[Today we may be gladly be light-hearted, with all the mirths man can devise, to revel with beautiful girls, each man dressed in his best way.  At last the night draweth on, when sleep has his domain.  When sleep has shown his power, the next day everyone prepares to rise; then everyone begins to wonder, but where the day went, no one can say.  If they knew, they would be wise; for all is turned to yesterday.]

3. Whose wolde þenke vppon þis,
Mihte fynde a good enchesun whi
To preue þis world al-wei iwis
Hit nis but fantum and feiri,
Þis erþly Ioye, þis worldly blis
Is but a fikel fantasy;
ffor nou hit is, and nou hit nis,
Þer may no mon þer-inne affy.
Hit chaungeþ so ofte & so sodeynly,
To-day is her, to-morwe a-way.
A siker ground ho wol him gy,
I rede he þenke on ȝuster-day.

[Whoever wishes to think on this may find a good reason how to test this world: always, indeed, it is but phantom and illusion. This earthly joy, this worldly bliss, is but a fickle fantasy, for now it is, and now it is not; no man can put faith in it.  It changes so often and so suddenly, today it is here, tomorrow is gone.  Whoever wants to provide himself with a solid foundation, I advise him to think on yesterday.]

4. ffor þer nis non so strong in stour,
ffro tyme þat he ful waxen be,
ffrom þat day forþ, euer-vch an hour,
Of his strengþe he leost a quantite;
Ne no buryde so briht in bour,
Of þritti wynter, I enseure þe,
Þat heo ne schal fade as a flour,
Luite and luite leosen hire beute.
Þe soþe ȝe may ȝor-self ise,
Beo ȝor eldres in good fay;
Whon ȝe ben grettest in ȝour degre,
I rede ȝe þenke on ȝesterday.

[There is no man so strong and mighty, that from the time he is fully grown is not, from that day forth, every hour, losing a little of his strength.  Nor is there any lady so bright in her chamber, of thirty winters, I assure thee, that shall not fade as a flower, and little by little lose her beauty.  The truth you may yourself see by looking at your elders, indeed.  When you are greatest in your degree, I advise you, think on yesterday.]

5. I haue wist, sin I cuþe meen,
Þat children haþ bi candel liht
Heor schadewe on þe wal i-sen,
And Ronne þer-after al þe niht;
Bisy a-boute þei han ben
To cacchen hit wiþ al heore miht,
And whon þei cacchen hit, best wolde wene,
Sannest hit schet out of heor siht;
Þe schadewe cacchen þei ne miht,
ffor no lynes þat þei couþe lay.
Þis schadewe I may likne a-riht
To þis world and ȝusterday.

[I have known, since I could remember, how children spot their shadow on the wall in the candlelight, and chase after it all night.  They are busy to catch it with all their power, but when they thought they were closest to catching it, the more quickly it shot out of their sight.  They could not catch the shadow, for any traps that they could lay.  I could liken this shadow, indeed, to this world and yesterday.]

6. Sum men seiþ þat deþ is a þef,
And al vnwarned wol on him stele;
And I sey nay, and make a pref,
Þat deþ is studefast, trewe and lele,
And warneþ vche mon of his greef,
Þat he wol o day wiþ him dele:
Þe lyf þat is to ow so leof,
He wol ȝou reue, and eke or hele;
Þis poyntes may no mon him repele.
He comeþ so baldely to pyke his pray,
Whon men beoþ muryest at heor Mele:
I rede ȝe þenke on ȝusterday.

[Some men say that death is a thief, and will steal on them all unawares; but I say no, and say this as a proof that death is steadfast, true, and loyal: he warns every man, to his grief, that he will deal with him one day.  The life that is so dear to you, he will take away from you, and your health too.  No man can appeal against him on this point, he comes so boldly to seize his prey.  When men are merriest at their meal, I advise you, think on yesterday.]

On Transience, III: This world fareth as a fantasy

This is an awesome poem about making sense of the world - about the pettiness of human disputes, and the vastness of the world; about how fleeting are both happiness and sorrow; about the role of reason and the limits of theology; and some other things as well. It was written probably towards the end of the fourteenth century, and preserved in a huge, lavishly-decorated manuscript of English verse and prose from the West Midlands, known as the Vernon Manuscript (or as Bodl. MS. (Vernon) Eng. Poet. a.1 (3938), if you prefer). Without this manuscript, our knowledge of English literature would be immeasurably poorer.

Verse 7 is my favourite (and was the most fun to translate!). But it's all wonderful.


1. I wolde witen of sum wys wiht
Witterly what þis world were:
Hit fareþ as a foules fliht,
Now is hit henne, now is hit here,
Ne be we neuer so muche of miht,
Now be we on benche, nou be we on bere;
And be we neuer so war and wiht,
Now be we sek, now beo we fere,
Now is on proud wiþ-outen peere,
Now is þe selue I-set not by;
And whos wol alle þing hertly here,
Þis world fareþ as a Fantasy.

I wish to know from a wise man, truly, what this world is. It passes as a bird's flight; now it is hence, now is it here. Be we never so great in strength, now are we on the hall-bench, now on the bier; and be we never so watchful and wise, now are we sick, now are we well. Now is there one who is proud without peer; now the same one is of no account. And whoso will all things truly know, hear: this world passes like a dream.

2. Þe sonnes cours, we may wel kenne,
Aryseþ Est and geþ doun west;
Þe Ryuers in-to þe see þei renne,
And hit is neuer þe more al-mest;
Wyndes Rosscheþ her and henne,
In snouȝ and reyn is non arest;
Whon þis wol stunte, ho wot or whenne,
But only god on grounde grest?
Þe eorþe in on is euer prest,
Now bi-dropped, now al druyȝe;
But vche gome glit forþ as a gest,
Þis world fareþ as a Fantasye.

The sun's course, we may well know, rises in the east and sets in the west; the rivers run into the sea, and yet it never grows any greater. Winds rush hither and thither, of snow and rain there is no end; how this will stop, who knows, or when? Only God, the greatest in the world. The earth is ever alike beset, now drenched, now dry; but every man glides away like a guest. This world passes like a dream.

[For this verse, cf. Ecclesiastes i.5-7: The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full: unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.]

3. Kunredes come, & kunredes gon,
As Ioyneþ generacions;
But alle hee passeþ euerichon,
For al heor preparacions;
Sum are for-ȝete clene as bon
A-mong alle maner nacions;
So schul men þenken vs no-þing on
Þat nou han þe ocupacions;
And alle þeos disputacions
Idelyche all vs ocupye,
For crist makeþ þe creacions,
And þis world fareþ as a fantasye.

Families come, and families go, as generations pass; but all go by, every one, for all their preparations. Some are forgotten, clean as a bone, among every nation; so shall men think not of us, who have this place now, and of these disputations which pointlessly obsess us. For Christ made all created things, and this world passes as a dream.

[Again, cf. Ecclesiastes i.4: One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.]

4. Whuch is Mon, ho wot, and what,
Wheþer þat he be ouȝt or nouht?
Of Erþe & Eyr groweþ vp a gnat,
And so doþ Mon whon al his souht;
Þauȝ mon be waxen gret and fat,
Mon melteþ a-wey so deþ a mouht.
Monnes miht nis worþ a Mat,
But nuyȝeþ him-self and turneþ to nouȝt.
Ho wot, saue he þat al haþ wrouȝt,
Wher mon bi-comeþ whon he schal dye?
Ho knoweþ bi dede ouȝt bote bi þouȝt?
For þis world fareþ as a fantasye.

Of what nature is man, who knows? and what? is he anything, or nothing? From earth and air grows up a gnat - and so does man, in truth; though he grows strong and fat, man melts away like a moth. A man's might is not worth a thing; he vexes himself and turns all to nought. Who knows - save He who all hath wrought - what becomes of man, when he must die? Who knows anything by experience, except by thought? For this world passes as a dream.

5. Dyeþ mon, and beestes dye,
And al is on Ocasion;
And alle o deþ, hos boþe drye,
And han on Incarnacion;
Saue þat men beoþ more sleyȝe,
Al is o comparison.
Ho wot ȝif monnes soule styȝe,
And bestes soules synkeþ doun?
Who knoweþ Beestes entencioun,
On heor creatour how þei crie,
Saue only god þat knoweþ heore soun?
For þis world fareþ as a fantasye.

Men die, and beasts die, and all have one condition; and all share one death and one birth. Except that men are more cunning, there is no distinction. Who knows if the souls of men ascend, and the souls of beasts sink down? Who knows the thoughts of animals, how they cry out to their creator - except God alone, who knows their voices? For this world passes as a dream.

6. Vche secte hopeþ to be saue,
Baldely bi heore bi-leeue;
And vchon vppon God heo craue—
Whi schulde God wiþ hem him greue?
Vchon trouweþ þat oþur Raue,
But alle heo cheoseþ God for cheue,
And hope in God vchone þei haue,
And bi heore wit heore worching preue.
Þus mony maters men don meue,
Sechen heor wittes hou and why;
But Godes Merci vs alle bi-heue,
For þis world fareþ as a fantasy.

Each sect boldly expects to be saved because of their faith, and each one cries out to God. Why should God trouble himself with them? Each one believes the others are mad, but all choose God as their Lord, and all have hope in God, and justify their actions by their clever reasoning. In this way men debate many topics, and search their wits to understand how and why - but God's mercy is necessary for us all, for this world passes as a dream.

7. For þus men stumble & sere heore witte,
And meueþ maters mony and fele;
Summe leeueþ on him, sum leueþ on hit,
As children leorneþ for to spele.
But non seoþ non þat a-bit,
Whon stilly deþ wol on hym stele.
For he þat hext in heuene sit,
He is þe help and hope of hele;
For wo is ende of worldes wele,—
Vche lyf loke wher þat I lye—
Þis world is fals, fikel and frele,
And fareþ but as a fantasye.

For thus men stumble and shatter their wits, and debate many and various matters; some believe in this, some in that, like children just learning to speak. But no one clings to anything that will last when silent death steals upon him. For He that sits highest in heaven, he is the help and hope of health; woe is the end of worldly wealth - tell me that I tell a lie! This world is false and fickle and frail, and passes like a dream.

8. Whar-to wilne we forte knowe
Þe poyntes of Godes priuete?
More þen him lustes forte schowe,
We schulde not knowe in no degre;
And Idel bost is forte blowe
A Mayster of diuinite.
Þenk we lyue in eorþe her lowe,
And God an heiȝ in Mageste;
Of Material Mortualite
Medle we & of no more Maistrie.
Þe more we trace þe Trinite,
Þe more we falle in fantasye.

Why do we seek to know the intricacies of God's secrets? We should not know more than it pleases him to show; a Master of Divinity only brags an idle boast. Remember that we live low upon the earth, and God dwells on high in majesty; we share in the mortality of material things, and have no mastery. The more we trace out the Trinity, the more we fall into fantasy.

9. But leue we vre disputisoun,
And leeue on him þat al haþ wrouȝt;
We mowe no[t] preue bi no resoun
Hou he was born þat al vs bouȝt;
But hol in vre entencioun,
Worschipe we him in herte & þouȝt,
For he may turne kuyndes vpsedoun,
Þat alle kuyndes made of nouȝt.
When al vr bokes ben forþ brouht,
And al vr craft of clergye,
And al vr wittes ben þorw-out souȝt,
ȝit we fareþ as a fantasye.

But let us leave our disputes and believe in Him who made all things; we cannot prove by any reason how He who saved us all was born. But wholly in our minds let us worship him in heart and thought - for He who made all out of nothing can turn all things upside down. When our books are brought forth, and all our clerkly knowledge, and all our wits are searched all through - we yet pass as a dream.

10. Of fantasye is al vr fare,
Olde & ȝonge and alle I-fere;
But make we murie & sle care,
And worschipe we god whil we ben here;
Spende vr good and luytel spare,
And vche mon cheries oþures cheere.
Þenk hou we comen hider al bare,—
Vr wey wendyng is in a were—
Prey we þe prince þat haþ no pere,
Tac vs hol to his Merci
And kepe vr Concience clere,
For þis world is but fantasy.

All our life is a dream, old and young and all together; but make we merry and put by care, and worship we God while we are here; spend our wealth and spare little, and let each man encourage another to be cheerful. Let us think how we came here with nothing, and where we go is a mystery; let us pray to the Prince without peer, entrust ourselves to His mercy, and keep our conscience pure - for this world is only a dream.

11. Bi ensaumple men may se,
A gret treo grouweþ out of þe grounde;
No þing a-bated þe eorþe wol be
Þauȝ hit be huge, gret, and rounde.
Riht þer wol Rooten þe selue tre,
Whon elde haþ maad his kuynde aswounde;
Þauȝ þer weore rote suche þre,
Þe eorþe wol not encrece a pounde.
Þus waxeþ & wanieþ Mon, hors, & hounde,
From nouȝt to nouȝt þus henne we hiȝe;
And her we stunteþ but a stounde,
For þis world is but fantasye.

By this example you may understand: a great tree grows out of the ground, but the earth is in no way diminished though the tree be huge, tall and round. The tree will still be rooted there when old age has brought down his kindred; though there were three such trees rooted there, the earth will not be enlarged by any degree. Thus man, horse and hound wax and wane, from nothing to nothing, from hence we go; and here we stay but for a short time, for this world is but a dream.

On Transience, II: Earth upon earth

Talland, Cornwall

This is a haunting poem from the 15th century, a time when the 'Dance of Death' and other memento mori themes were becoming increasingly popular. I almost feel I should apologise for its gruesome nature, but as poetry, it's incredibly effective, mostly because of the rhyme scheme (a single rhyme per stanza) and the obsessive repetition of 'earth', which gives it a kind of spooky incantational sound.

There are multiple versions of this poem, variations on a theme usually keeping to the same distinctive rhyme scheme (which gives you a clue as to how central the rhyme is to the overall effect). Fascinatingly, the last three stanzas appear in a medieval wall-painting in the Guild Chapel in Stratford-upon-Avon; and given that context, it's hard not to think of Hamlet:

Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!

Here's the medieval poem, with a modernised version below (of the many available versions, this is the text of Lincoln, Lincoln Cathedral Library MS. 91). Essentially, to read it you have to understand every first earth as 'man (who is dust)' and every second earth as either 'earth' (as in, 'the world') or 'dust', in the sense of physical matter; but the point of the poem is that they are the same thing.

Memento, homo, quod sinis es
Et in cenerem reverteris.

Erthe oute of erthe is wondirly wroghte,
Erthe has geten one erthe a dignite of noghte,
Erthe appon erthe hase sett alle his thoghte
How that erthe upon erthe may be heghe broghte.

Erthe upon erthe wolde be a kinge
Bot how erthe to erthe sall, thinkes he no thinge
When erthe bredes erthe and his rentes home bringe
Thane shall erthe of erthe have full harde parting.

Erthe upon erthe winnes castells and towrres
Thane sayse erthe unto erthe, "This es al ourres"
When erthe upon erthe has bigged up his bourres
Thane shall erthe for erthe suffere sharpe scourres.

Erthe gos upon erthe as molde upon molde
He that gose upon erthe, gleterande as golde,
Like as erthe never more go to erthe scholde
And yitt schall erthe unto erthe ga rathere than he wolde

Now why that erthe luffes erthe, wondere me thinke
Or why erthe for erthe sholde other swete or swinke
For when erthe appon erthe has broughte within brinke
Thane shall erthe of erthe have a foul stinke.

Mors solvit omnia.

Remember, man, that you are dust
And to dust you shall return.

Earth out of earth is wondrously wrought,
Earth has on earth a dignity of naught,
Earth upon earth has set all his thought
How that earth upon earth may be high brought.

Earth upon earth would be a king
But how earth to earth shall [come], thinks he not a thing;
When earth breeds earth and his rents home bring
Then shall earth of earth have full hard parting.

Earth upon earth wins castles and towers
Then says earth unto earth, "This is all ours!"
When earth upon earth has built up his bowers
Then shall earth for earth suffer sharp showers. [attacks]

Earth goes upon earth as mould upon mould
He goes upon earth, glittering like gold,
As if earth never more return to earth should;
And yet shall earth unto earth go faster than he would.

Now why that earth loves earth, wonder me think [it is a wonder to me]
Or why earth for earth should either sweat or swink [labour]
For when earth upon earth is brought within brink [within bounds, i.e. in the grave]
Then shall earth of earth have a foul stink.

Death dissolves all things.

A four-line version of this poem, in BL Harley 2253, f.59v

On Transience, I: Where beth they biforen us weren?

A particularly mournful Sunday lyric today. Here are some verses from a thirteenth-century poem on the theme Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?


Where beth they biforen us weren,
houndes ladden and havekes beren,
and hadden feld and wode?
The riche levedies in hoere bour,
that wereden gold in hoere tressour,
with hoere brightte rode?

Eten and drounken, and maden hem glad;
hoere lif was al with gamen i-lad,
men kneleden hem biforen;
they beren hem wel swithe heye;
and in a twincling of an eye
hoere soules weren forloren.

Were is that lawhing and that song,
that trayling and that proude yong,
tho havekes and tho houndes?
Al that joye is went away,
that wele is comen to weylaway,
to manye harde stoundes.

Hoere paradis they nomen here,
and nou they lyen in helle i-fere;
the fuir hit brennes hevere:
long is ay, and long is o,
long is wy, and long is wo;
thennes ne cometh they nevere.


Translation:

Where are they who lived before us,
Led hounds and carried hawks,
And owned the fields and woods?
The rich ladies in their bowers
Who wore gold in their hair,
With their bright faces?

Who ate, and drank, and enjoyed themselves;
Their life was lived with pleasure;
Men knelt before them,
And they held themselves very high;
And in a twinkling of an eye
Their souls were lost.

Where is the laughing and the song,
The trailing gowns of the proud young man,
The hawks and hounds?
All that joy is gone away;
The bliss is turned to 'weylaway' [alas]
And many hard times.

Their paradise they took here,
And now they lie in hell, together;
That fire burns for ever.
Long is 'ah!' and long is 'oh!'
Long is 'why?' and long is 'woe!'
Thence will they come never.


There are many poems on such a theme; but compare this, from Browning's 'A Toccata of Galuppi's':

...
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, —
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and afford
— She, to bite her mask's black velvet — he, to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

...

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

...

"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.