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Geoffrey Chaucer - To Life`s Pilgrim
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FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; 

Suffice unto thy good, though it be small, 
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ; 

Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o`er all. 

Savor no more than thee behoven shall, 
Rede well thy self that other folk can`st rede, 
And Truth thee shalt deliver `tis no drede. 

That thee is sent receive in buxomness : 
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall. 

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. 
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall; 
Look up on high, and thank the God of all! 

Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, 

And Truth thee shalt deliver `tis no drede.
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