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

sure

In every point so guided her measure,

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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

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

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5 Have pity.

6 Unknown.

7 For then.

8 May not follow the heart through.

9 Oughtest not.

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