Ye pressyd pertely to pluk a crow:
Ye lost your holde,[563] onbende your bow,
Ye wan nothyng there but a mow; 50
Ye wan nothyng there but a skorne;
Sche wolde nat of yt thow had sworne.
Sche seyd ye war coluryd with cole dust;
To daly with yow she had no lust.
Sche seyd your brethe stanke lyke a broke;
With, Gup, Syr Gy, ye gate a moke.
Sche sware with hyr ye xulde nat dele,