I that in heill was and gladness Am trublit now with great sickness And feblit with infirmitie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker, So wannis this world's vanitie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. Unto the death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelattis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the knichtis in to field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at All mellie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. He sparis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. Art-magicians and astrologis, Rethoris, logicianis, theologis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:— Timor Mortis conturbat me. In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may nocht supplee:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The dirge for King Gorice XI. of Witchland, by the Red Foliot after he was slain in wrastling by Lord Goldry Bluszco for the independence of Demonland.
Originally, Lament for the Makers by William Dunbar
(The Worm Ouroboros, E,R. Eddison)