My wytte wolde waste, I make God auowe.
Tell me your mynde: me thynke, ye make a verse;
I coude it skan,[287] and ye wolde it[288] reherse.
But to the poynte shortely to procede,
Where hathe your dwellynge ben, er ye cam here?
For, as I trowe, I haue sene you indede
Er this, whan that ye made me royall chere.
Holde vp the helme, loke vp, and lete God stere: 250
I wolde be mery, what wynde that euer blowe,
Heue and how rombelow, row the bote, Norman, rowe!