The world so wide, th’air so remuàble,
the sely man so litel of statùre,
the grove and ground of clothing soo mutàble,
the fire so hot and subtil of natùre,
the water never in oon—what creätùre,
that made is of these fourè thus flittng,
may stedfast be as here in his living?
The more I go the ferther I am behinde,
the ferther behind the neer my wayès ende;
the more I seche the worsè can I finde,
The lighter leve the lother for to wende;
the bet I serve the more al out of mende.
Is this fortùne—n’ot I—or infortune?
Though I go loose, tied am I with a lune,
