Now skrinketh rose and lilye-flour,
That whilen ber that swete savour,
In somer, that swete tide.
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no levedy so bright in bour,
That Ded ne shall by glide.
Whose wol flesh lust forgon
And Hevene blis abide,
On Jesu be his thoght anon,
That therled was his side.

From Petresbourgh in o morewening,
As I me wende o my pleying,
On my folye I thoghte.
Menen I gon my mourning
To hire that ber the Hevene King,
Of mercy hire besoghte:
" Ledy, preye thy sone for ous,
That us dere boghte,
And shild us from the lothe hous
That to the Fend is wroghte."

Mine herte of dedes wes fordred,
Of sinne that I have my flesh fed
And folewed all my time:

That I not whider I shall be led,
When I ligge on dethes bed,
In joye ore into pine.
On o Ledy mine hope is,
Moder and virgine:
We shulen into Hevene blis
Thurh hire medicine.

Betere is hire medicine
Then eny mede or eny wine,
Hire erbes smulleth swete.
From Catenas into Divelin
Nis ther no leche so fine
Oure sorewes to bete.
Mon that feleth eny sor,
And his folye wol lete,
Withoute gold other eny tresor
He may be sound and sete.

Of penaunce is his plastre all,
And ever serven hire I shall,
Now and all my live.
Now is free that er wes thrall,
All thourh that Levedy, gent and small —
Heried be hir joyes five.
Wherso eny sek is
Thider hye blive;
Thurh hire beth ibroght to blis
Bo maiden and wive.

For he that dude his body on Tre
Of oure sunnes have piete,
That weldes Hevene boures.
Wimmon, with thy jolifte,
Thou thench on Godes shoures:
Thah thou be whit and bright on ble
Falewen shule thy floures.
Jesu have mercy of me,
That all this world honoures.