My sorwe is feryng I have do sum offens;
Punchyth me, Lorde, and spare my blyssyd wyff Anne,
That syttyth and sorwyth ful sore of myn absens!
Ther is not may profyte but prayour to ȝour presens;
With prayores prostrat byfore thi person I wepe;
Have mende on oure avow, for ȝour meche magnyficens,
And my lovyngest wyff Anne, Lord, for thi mercy kepe!
Anna. A! mercy, Lord! mercy! mercy! mercy!
We are synfolest; it shewyth that ȝe send us alle this sorwe:
Why do ȝe thus to myn husbond, Lord? why, why, why?