That shal be for your hele, & for your prow;
And in our yerde, the herbes shal I finde,
The which han of hir propretee by kinde
To purgen you benethe, & eke above.
Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love;
Ye ben ful colerike of complexion;
Ware that the Sonne in his ascention
Ne find you not replete of humours hote:
And if it do, I dare wel lay a grote,
That ye shul han a fever tertiane,