Thi blysful sone so nere to fynde,
In his presens to lede my lyff.
Alas! ffor joy I qwedyr and qwake;
Alas! what hap now was this?
A mercy, mercy, my jentyl make,—
Mercy! I have seyd al amys;
Alle that I have seyd here I forsake:
ȝour swete fete now lete me kys.
Mary. Nay, lett be my fete, not tho ȝe take,
My mowthe ȝe may kys i-wys,