Þe king ne mowcte don no more,
But yerne preyede godes ore;
And dede him hoslen wel and shriue,
The king does penance.
I woth, fif hundred siþes and fiue;
An ofte dede him sore swinge,
And wit hondes smerte dinge;
So þat þe blod ran of his fleys,
Þat tendre was, and swiþe neys.
[11]And sone gaf it euere-il del;