Lord, quath he, in uncouthe thede,
Thurch a wildernes as Y yede;
Ther Y founde in a dale,
With lyouns a man to torn smale,
And wolves him frete[153] with teth so scharp;
Bi him Y found this ich harp,
Wele ten yere it is y go.
O! quath the steward, now me is wo!
That was mi lord, sir Orfeo!
Allas! wreche what schall Y do,