Likewise the cuckoo, with unlucky voice, welcomes summer but warns of sorrow bitter in breast's hold. The helpless heart is called by the winging bird to the whale's way, the immense waters. I have no belief that the good things of earth can be eternal. For that reason, the rightest repute for any hero, the highest hearsay, is the love of the living. Before he leaves this earth, he should earn, in spite of enemies, the fair fame of fighting the devil.
Days grow shorter, earth's pride palls, lordship is poorer.
His garment of flesh, as life goes from it, loses sweetness, relish and suffering-shock, neither his hand nor his brain can hold a burden. And though for his born brother he will bury treasure in the tomb, strew the grave with gold, various riches, to rig fair his voyage, yet if the departed soul was sin-darkened no gold will keep off the grimness of God, though he had deftly deceived those he dwelt among. A man must rule himself with a strong heart, and steadily, his word be trusted, his ways clean. Now let our hearts think where is their true home and take counsel how we can come there, and labour also that we may be allowed to be in the abode of blessedness, the right place for life, in God's love's realm, amid heaven's hopes.