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[Fol. 72, ro.]

HEZE loverd, thou here my bone,
That madest middel-ert ant mone,
ant mon of murthes munne,
Trusti kyng ant trewe in trone,
That thou be with me sahte sone,

asoyle me of sunne.

Fol ich wes in folies fayn,

In luthere lastes y am layn,

that maketh myn thryftes thunne;

That semly sawes wes woned to-seyn, Nou is marred al my meyn,

a-way is al my wunne.

Un-wunne haveth myn wonges wet,

that maketh me routhes rede;

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Whil ich wes in wille wolde,
In uch a bour among the bolde

y holde with the heste; Nou y may no fynger folde, Lutel loved ant lasse y-tolde, y-leved with the leste.

A goute me hath y-greythed so,
Ant other eveles monye mo,

y not whet bote is beste; Thar er wes wilde ase the ro, Nou y swyke, y mei nout so, hit siweth me so faste.

Faste y wes on horse heh,

ant werede worly wede;

Nou is faren al my feh,

With serewe that ich hit ever seh,

a staf is nou my stede.

When y se steden stythe in stalle,
Ant y go haltinde in the halle,

myn huerte gynneth to helde;. That er wes wildest in with walle, Nou is under fote y-falle,

ant mey no fynger felde.

Ther ich wes luef, icham ful loht,
Ant alle myn godes me at-goht,

myn gomenes waxeth gelde;

That feyre founden me mete ant cloht, Hue wrieth a-wey as hue were wroht,

such is evel ant elde.

Evel ant elde, ant other wo,

foleweth me so faste,

Me thunketh myn herte breketh a tuo; Suete God, whi shal hit swo?

hou mai hit lengore laste?

Whil mi lif wes luther ant lees,
Glotonie mi glemon wes,

with me he wonede a while; Prude wes my plowe fere, Lecherie my lavendere,

with hem is gabbe ant gyle. Coveytise myn keyes bere, Nithe ant onde were mi fere, that bueth folkes fyle; Lyare wes mi latymer, Sleuthe ant slep mi bedyner, that weneth me unbe-while.

Umbe-while y am to whene,

when y

shal murthes meten;

Monne mest y am to mene;

Lord, that hast me lyf to-lene,

such lotes lef me leten !

Such lyf ich have lad fol zore,
Merci, loverd! y nul namore,
bowen ichulle to bete;
Syker hit siweth me ful sore,
Gabbes les ant luthere lore,

sunnes bueth un-sete.


Godes heste ne huld y noht,

Bote ever azeyn is wille y

mon lereth me to lete:


Such serewe hath myn sides thurh-soht, That al y weolewe a-way to noht,

when y shal murthes mete.

To mete murthes ich wes wel fous,
ant comely mon ta calle;
Y sugge by other ase bi ous,
ys hirmon halt in hous,


ase heved hount in halle.

Dredful deth, why wolt thou dare,

Bryng this body that is so bare,

ant yn bale y-bounde?

Careful mon, y-cast in care,
Y falewe as flour y-let forth-fare,

ychabbe myn dethes wounde.

Murthes helpeth me no more;
Help me, Lord, er then ich hore,
ant stunt my lyf a stounde!
That 30kkyn hath y-zyrned 30re,
Nou hit sereweth him ful sore,

ant bringeth him to grounde.

To grounde hit haveth him y-broht: whet ys the beste bote?

Bote heryen him that haht us boht,

Ure Lord that al this world hath wroht, ant fallen him to fote.

Nou icham to dethe y-dyht, y-don is al my dede;

God us lene of ys lyht,

That we of sontes habben syht

ant hevene to mede! AMEN.


[Fol. 72, vo.]

BLOW, northerne wynd,

Sent thou me my suetyng.

Blow, northerne wynd, blou, blou, blou!

Ichot a burde in boure bryht,

That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht,

feir ant fre to fonde;

In al this wurhliche won,

A burde of blod ant of bon

Never zete y nuste non

lussomore in londe. Blou, etc.

With lokkes lefliche ant longe,

With frount ant face feir to fonde,

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