My lyf, my deeth, standeth in youre grace;
530
And though my gilt be nothing, alas!
I aske mercy in al my beste entente,
Redy to dye, if that ye assente.
For ther-ayeines shal I never stryve
In worde ne werke; playnly, I ne may;
535
For lever I have than to be alyve
To dye soothly, and it be her to pay;