I dar wel swere she took the beste!
685
'But through that draughte I have lorn
My blisse; allas! that I was born!
For evermore, I trowe trewly,
For al my wil, my lust hoolly
Is turned; but yet, what to done?
690
By our lord, hit is to deye sone;
For no-thing I [ne] leve it noght,