The bathes and the Stwes bothe
Thei schetten in be every weie;
There was no lif which leste pleie
Ne take of eny joie kepe,
Bot for here liege lord to wepe;
And every wyht seide as he couthe,
‘Helas, the lusti flour of youthe, 490
Our Prince, oure heved, our governour,
Thurgh whom we stoden in honour,[1504]
P. iii. 292