O Yonge fresshe folkes, he or she In which that love up groweth with your age Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee And of your herte upcasteth the visage To thilke god that after his image Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre And loveth him, the which that right for love Upon a cros, our soules for to beye First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene above For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye And sin he best to love is, and most meke What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
herte, fayre, leye, meke, vanitee