God better wot than my pen can report,
Wisdom, largesse estate, and conyng

sure

In every point so guided her measure,

An other while the little nightingale,
That sat upon the twiggis, would I
chide,

In word, in deed, in shape, in conten- And say right thus, Where are thy notis

Should thou then cease, it were great Sen when ye go, there is nought else than;7