Grass time is done, my fodder is now foráge. This whitë top 1197 writeth mine oldë years; Mine heart is also moulded 1198 as mine hairs; And I do fare as doth an open-erse; 1199 That ilkë 1200 fruit is ever longer werse, Till it be rotten in mullok or in stre. 1201 We oldë men, I dread, so farë we; Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe; We hop 1202 away, while that the world will pipe; For in our will there sticketh aye a nail, To have an hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leek; for though our might be gone, Our will desireth folly ever-in-one: 1203