And forto speke of this entaile
Touchende of love in thi matiere,
Mi goode Sone, as thou miht hiere,
That riht as it with tho men stod
Of infortune of worldes good,
As thou hast herd me telle above,
Riht so fulofte it stant be love:
Thogh thou coveite it everemore,
Thou schalt noght have o diel the more, 2450
Bot only that which thee is schape,