For everemore I finde a lette:
The boteler is noght mi frend,
Which hath the keie be the bend;
I mai wel wisshe and that is wast,[729]
For wel I wot, so freissh a tast,
Bot if mi grace be the more,
I schal assaie neveremore. 300
Thus am I drunke of that I se,
For tastinge is defended me,
And I can noght miselven stanche: