O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she, br In which that love up groweth with your age, br Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, br And of your herte up-casteth the visage br To thilke god that after his image br Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre br This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. br br And loveth him, the which that right for love br Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, br First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; br For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, br That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.