The Sad Truth of Wealth

[1] Rēowliċ þing hē dyde, and rēowlicor him ġelamp. [2] Hū rēowlicor? Him ġeyfelade and þæt him stranglīċe eġlade. [3] Hwæt mæġ iċ tellan? Se scearpa dēað, þe ne forlēt ne rīċe menn ne hēane, se hine ġenam. [4] Hē swealt on Normandiġe on þone nēxtan dæġ æfter Natiuitas Sancte Marie, and man bebyrġede hine on Caþum æt sancte Stephanes mynstre. [5] Ǣror hē hit ārǣrde, and syððan mænifealdlīċe ġegōdade.
[6] Ēalā, hū lēas and hū unwrēst is þysses middaneardes wela! [7] Se þe wæs ǣror rīċe cyng and maniġes landes hlāford, hē næfde þā ealles landes būton seofon fōtmǣl; and se þe wæs hwīlon ġescrīd mid golde and mid ġimmum, hē læġ þā oferwrogen mid moldan.

A sorrowful thing he did, and more sorrowful came upon him. How more sorrowful? It befell him, and that it strangled him harshly. What may I tell? The sharp death, which does not spare neither rich men nor lowly ones, takes him. He died in Normandy on the next day after the Nativity of Saint Mary, and men buried him in Caen at the shrine of Saint Stephen. Before he raised it up, and afterwards manifoldly adorned.
Alas, how vain and how unsteady is this world's wealth! He who was once a mighty king and lord of many lands had not all the land but seven feet; and he who was sometimes clad with gold and with gems lay then covered with earth.