As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem.

But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth. Gat-toothed I was, and that bicam me weel.

Greet prees at market maketh deere ware, And to greet cheep is holde at litel prys.

By God! in erthe I was his purgatorie, For which I hope his Soule be in glorie.

Thereafter wol we crie al day and crave.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme.

In his owene grece I made hym frye. 12

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas, Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede, The deeth of every man.

Sathan, that evere us waiteth to bigile.

She is mirour of alle curteisye. 11