Wellnigh each day doth some wight bleed
Or come even to his death for my sake.
And I wot well that Moonen doth this mischief breed.
He is not of the best, I undertake;
Though he saith little I may not him mistake:
He is a fiend or but little more.
O aunt, mine aunt, the foul words that ye spake
Will make of me a damned whore,
For whom God holds no grace in store.
Oh, woe is me and wellaway!