O but deepen not yourself in sorrows,
Yet to fill yourself with guzzleness;
The melancholy of my doom, pitied woes
Lest despair lambates, more gushings oppress
Sprinkle on your head not ashes nor soot
That i may suffer no vitriols from all men
Nor bitterly groan or raise your voice as coot,
so is uncultured to uluate and scream in your den
Fairer that i become moss upon the earth;
Than your weird sighs, brooding tears i behold
To bare your head or wear a mourncloth,
For this be the custom of the world;
For the righteous mortal shall die,
Same soul who sins in dust will lie
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem