| | So doth my lord and that me greuith sore | |
| | God it amende I can say nomore | |
| | Therof no force good yeman quod our ost | |
| 100 | Syn of the konnyng of thy lord thou bost | |
| | Tel hou he doth tel on now hardely | |
| | Syn that he is so crafty and so sly | |
| | Where duelle ye yf it be to telle tel me | |
| | In the subbarbis of a toun quod he | |
| 105 | Lurkinge in hernys and in lanys blynde | |
| | Where as thyse Robbers & thyse theuys bekynde | |
| | Holden her fereful priuy residence | |
| | As they that dar not shewe her presence | |
| | So fare we yf we shal say the sothe | |
| 110 | Now quod our ost lete me talke tothe | |
| | Why art thou so discolourid in thy face | |
| | Petir quod he god yeue it hard grace | |
| | I am so vsid the hote fire to blowe | |
| | That it hath chaungid my colour I trowe | |
| 115 | I am not wont in no myrour to prye | |
| | But swynke sore and lerne multiplye | |
| | We bloundryn euer and powryn in the fyre | |
| | And for al that we faylen of our desire | |
| | For euer we lacke our conclusion | |
| 120 | To muchel folk we do illusion | |
| | And borow gold be it a pound or two | |
| | Or ten or twelue or many sommys mo | |
| | And make hem wene atte leste wey | |
| | That of a pounde we coude make twey | |
| 125 | It is fals and ay we haue good hope | |
