So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette.
Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
Eke wonder last but nine deies never in toun.
I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but on hole for to sterten to.
And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tickleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme. But age, alias! that al wole envenyme, Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith. Lat go, farewel! the devel go therwith! The flour is goon, ther is namoore to telle; The bren, as I best kan, now most I selle.
For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.
Loke who that is most vertuous alway, Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay To do the gentil dedes that he can, And take him for the gretest gentilman.
I am right sorry for your heavinesse.
This flour of wifly patience.
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