Mote aske grace, mercy, and pitè,
480
And namëly, ther wher non may be founde!
For now my sore my leche wil confounde,
And god of kinde so hath set myn ure,
My lyves fo to have my wounde in cure!
Alas! the whyle now that I was born!
485
Or that I ever saw the brighte sonne!
For now I see, that ful longe aforn,