As who sayth, 'nay, that wol not be.'
560
'Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he,
I thanke thee that thou woldest so,
But hit may never the rather be do.
No man may my sorwe glade,
That maketh my hewe to falle and fade,
565
And hath myn understonding lorn,
That me is wo that I was born!