I that in heill wes and gladnes,
Am trublit now with gret seiknes,
And feblit with infermite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.The stait of man dois change and vary,
Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,
Now dansand mery, now like to dee;
Timor mortis conturbat me.No stait in erd heir standis sickir;
As with the wynd wavis the wickir,
Wavis this warldis vanite.
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Above is excerpt (first 16 lines) from “Lament for the Makers” by William Dunbar, who lived 1456-1513. The Latin, “Timor mortis conturbat me,” means “Fear of death disturbs me.”
The picture below is “Parable of the Blind” by Bruegel the Elder (1568).
