Though thy neighbour have world at will,
  And thou far’st not so well as he,
  Be not so mad to think him ill, wish. (?)
  For his wealth envious to be: 
  The king of heaven himself can see
  Who takes his sonde,[50] great or small;
  Thus each man in his degree,
  I rede thanke God for all. counsel.

  For Cristes love, be not so wild,
  But rule thee by reason within and without;
  And take in good heart and mind
  The sonde that God sent all about; the gospel. (?)
  Then dare I say withouten doubt,
  That in heaven is made thy stall. place, seat, room.
  Rich and poor that low will lowte, bow.
  Alway thank God for all.

I cannot say there is much poetry in this, but there is much truth and wisdom.  There is the finest poetry, however, too, in the line—­I give it now letter for letter:—­

  But think that God ys ther he was.

There is poetry too in the line, if I interpret it rightly as intending the gospel—­

  The sonde that God sent al abowte.

I shall now make a few extracts from poems of the same century whose authors are unknown.[51] A good many such are extant.  With regard to the similarity of those I choose, I would remark, that not only will the poems of the same period necessarily resemble each other, but, where the preservation of any has depended upon the choice and transcription of one person, these will in all probability resemble each other yet more.  Here are a few verses from a hymn headed The Sweetness of Jesus:—­

  If I for kindness should love my kin, for natural reasons. 
  Then me thinketh in my thought [Kind is nature,
  By kindly skill I should begin by natural judgment.
  At him that hath me made of nought;
  His likeness he set my soul within,
  And all this world for me hath wrought;
  As father he fondid my love to win, set about.
  For to heaven he hath me brought.

  Our brother and sister he is by skill, reason.
  For he so said, and lerid us that lore, taught.
  That whoso wrought his Father’s will,
  Brethren and sisters to him they wore. were.
  My kind also he took ther-tille; my nature also he took
  Full truly trust I him therefore [for that purpose.
  That he will never let me spill, perish.
  But with his mercy salve my sore.

  With lovely lore his works to fill, fulfil.
  Well ought I, wretch, if I were kind—­ natural.
  Night and day to work his will,
  And ever have that Lord in mind. 
  But ghostly foes grieve me ill, spiritual.
  And my frail flesh maketh me blind;
  Therefore his mercy I take me till, betake me to.
  For better bote can I none find. aid.