The colde wyndes overblowe,
And stille be the scharpe schoures,[700]
And soudeinliche ayein his floures 7830
The Somer hapneth and is riche:
And so per cas thi graces liche,
Mi Sone, thogh thou be nou povere
Of love, yit thou miht recovere.
Amans.
Mi fader, certes grant merci:
Ye have me tawht so redeli,