Confessor.
What seist thou, Sone, of this folie?
Amans.
Mi fader, bot I scholde lie,
Upon the point which ye have seid
Yit was myn herte nevere leid,
Bot in the wise as I you tolde.[567]
Bot overmore, if that ye wolde[568]
Oght elles to my schrifte seie
Touchende Envie, I wolde preie. 380