Wolde I slayn werë—Deeth, was to hastyf
To renne on thee, and reve thee thy lyf....
She mighte han taried hir vengeance a whyle
Til that som man had egal to thee be;
Nay, lat be that! she knew wel that this yle
May never man forth bringe lyk to thee,
And hir offyce nedes do mot she:
God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thy soule reste!
(3) From the same, p. 179, stanzas 712-4:—