Forsothe, quod she, how euer blowe the wynde, 110
Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe:
Whome she hateth shall ouer the see boorde[259] skyp;
Whome she loueth, of all plesyre[260] is ryche,
Whyles she laugheth[261] and hath luste for to playe;
Whome she hateth,[262] she casteth in the dyche,
For whan she frouneth,[263] she thynketh to make a fray;
She cheryssheth[264] him, and hym she casseth[265] awaye.
Alas, quod I, how myghte I haue her sure?
In fayth, quod she, by Bone Auenture.