The ſeruand for to diſput with ye lord;
“Love knows the reason of my wo.”
Bot well he knowith of al my vo the quhy,
[124] And in quhat wyß he hath me ſet, quhar I
Nore may I not, nore can I not attane,
Nore to hir hienes dare I not complane.”
SHE BIDS HIM WRITE A POEM.
“Fool,” said the bird, “despair not;
“Ful!” quod the bird, “lat be thi nyß diſpare,
[128] For in this erith no lady is ſo fare,