Wrythe on to my necke bon,
With hardnesse of thin honde.
Adam. Wyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche,
Leve woman, turne thi thought,
I wyl not sle fflescly of my fflesche,
ffor of my flesche thi fflesche was wrought.
Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesche,
To paradys whan we were brought,
My wepyng xal be longe ffresche,
Schort lykyng xal be longe bought.