Mery-reporte. I count women lost, yf we love them not well,
For ye se god loveth them never a dele.
Maystres ye can not speake wyth the god.
Gentylwoman. No! why?
Mery-reporte. By my fayth, for his lordship is ryght besy.
Wyth a pece of worke that nedes must be doone; 795
Even now is he makyng of a new moone.
He sayth your olde moones be so farre tasted,[183]
That all the goodnes of them is wasted,
Whyche of the great wete hath ben moste mater