And of ȝour sorwe ȝow sone amende!
Joachym. I am nott wurthy, Lord, to loke up to hefne!
My synful steppys anvempnyd the grounde;
I loth folest that levyth thou, Lord, hyest in thi setys sefne,
What art thou, Lord? what am I wrecche werse than an hownde?
Thou hast sent me shame whiche myn hert doth wounde;
I thank the more herefore than for alle my prosperité:
This is a tokyn thou lovest me,—now to the I am bounde;
Thou seyst thou art with hem that in tribulacion be.
And ho so have the, he nedyth not care thanne;