The road to go to Mass;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your tomb?
My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,
What leave you to your tomb?"
"Masses seven score and ten;
O lady mother, my heart is very sick:
Masses seven score and ten;
Alas, alas, that I should have to die."
"What leave you to your love?