ȝa, the grete myghty okys with my dent I spylle;
What man that I wrastele with, he xal ryght sone have schame, —
I ȝeve him suche a trepett, he xal evyr more ly stylle,
ffor deth kan no sporte.
Wher I smyte, ther is no grace,
ffor aftere my strook man hath no space
To make amendys ffor his trespace,
But God hym graunt comforte.
Ow! se how prowdely ȝon kaytyff sytt at mete!
Of deth hath he no dowte, he wenyth to leve evyrmore;