“Unto the towne of Walsingham,
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those pathes
For you to find out all alone.”
Were the miles doubled thrise
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grevous and so ill.
“Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire,
Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene;