No apoplexie shente not hire hed,
No win ne dranke she, neyther white ne red.
‘Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes,
For Goddes love, as take som laxatif;
Up peril of my soule, & of my lif,
I conseil you the best, I wol not lie.
That both of coler, & of melancolie
Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarie,
Though in this toun be non apotecarie,
I shal myself two herbes techen you,