Who could but weep for the loss of such a lady?
That cannot I do, I swear by mine honesty.
But, Lord! so the ladies mourn crying, alack!
Nothing is worn now but only black;
I believe all [the] cloth in Watling Street to make gowns would not serve:[248]
If I make a lie, the devil let me starve!
All ladies mourn both young and old;
There is not one that weareth a point’s worth of gold.
There is a sort for fear of the king do pray,
That would have him dead, by the mass I dare say.