For sothe this was a Lord to drede,
So sodeynly mad mon agast;
Of gold and selver thei tok non hede,
But out of ther houses ful sone thei past.
Chaumbres, chymeneys, al to-brast,
Chirches and castelles foule gon fare;
Pinacles, steples, to grounde hit cast;
And al was for warnyng to be ware.
The rysyng of the comuynes in londe,
The pestilens, and the eorthe-qwake,
Theose threo thinges, I understonde,
Beoth tokenes the grete vengaunce and wrake
That schulde falle for synnes sake,
As this clerkes conne declare.
Now may we chese to leve or take,
For warnyng have we to be ware.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem