Weeping right sore with great relent,
For to go else she wist not where:
A narrow way with thorns and briers,
And full of mires was her before,
She sighed oft with sobs and tears,
The poor wife’s heart was wonderous sore,
Tired and torn she went on still,
Sometimes she sat, and sometimes fell,
Aye till she came to a high hill,
And then she looked back to hell,