To marre ȝow in a thyrke myste,
My lord God is ful of lyste,
To glathe ȝow for his geste.
And therfore, kynges, whan ȝe ryse,
Wendyth forthe be weys wyse,
Ther ȝour halle be sett in syse,
In dyverse londe.
The ffadyr of God in alle thynge
Hath ȝow grawntyd his swete blyssynge,
He xal ȝow save ffrom alle shendynge,