I must gon owth hens fer the fro,
I wylle go laboryn in fere countré,
With trewthe to maynteyn oure housholde so.
This ix. monthis thou seyst me nowth:
Kepe the clene, my jentyl spowse,
And alle thin maydenys in thin howse,
That evyl langage I here not rowse,
ffor hese love that alle hath wrought.
Maria. I pray to God he spede ȝour way,
And in sowle helthe he mote ȝow kepe,