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"Lordynges," quod he, "I warne yow, al this route, |
| The fourthe party of this day is gon. |
| Now for the love of God and of Seint John, |
| Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may. |
20 | Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day, |
| And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge, |
| And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge, |
| As dooth the streem, that turneth nevere agayn, |
| Descendynge fro the montaigne into playn. |
25 | Wel kan Senec and many a philosophre |
| Biwaillen tyme, moore than gold in cofre. |
| For 'Los of catel may recovered be, |
| But los of tyme shendeth us,' quod he. |
| It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede, |
30 | Namoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede, |
| Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse. |
| Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse. |
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"Masters," said he, "I warn all of this rout, |
| A quarter of this present day is gone; |
| Now for the love of God and of Saint John, |
| Lose no more time, or little as you may; |
20 | Masters, the time is wasting night and day, |
| And steals away from us, what with our sleeping |
| And with our sloth, when we awake are keeping, |
| As does the stream, that never turns again, |
| Descending from the mountain to the plain. |
25 | And well may Seneca, and many more, |
| Bewail lost time far more than gold in store. |
| 'For chattels lost may yet recovered be, |
| But time lost ruins us for aye,' says he. |
| It will not come again, it is a pity, |
30 | Not any more than will Mag's virginity |
| When she has lost it in her wantonness; |
| Let's not grow mouldy thus in idleness. |
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