The eagle sang 'Venite, bodies all,
1360
And let us joye to love that is our helth.'
And to the deske anon they gan to fall,
And who come late, he pressed in by stelth:
Than seid the fawcon, our own hartis welth,
'Domine, Dominus noster, I wot,
1365
Ye be the god that don us bren thus hot.'
'Celi enarrant,' said the popingay,