what I mene; yet thinke on thy servaunt that for thy love
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spilleth; al thinges have I forsake to folowen thyn hestes;
rewarde me with a thought, though ye do naught els. Remembraunce
of love lyth so sore under my brest, that other thought
cometh not in my mynde but gladnesse, to thinke on your goodnesse
and your mery chere; †ferdnes and sorowe, to thinke on your
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wreche and your daunger; from whiche Christ me save! My
greet joye it is to have in meditacion the bountees, the vertues,