De tous veysinages hony seient ceux.
Je pri tote bone gent qe pur moi vueillent prier,
Qe je pus à mon pais aler e chyvaucher;
Unqe ne fu homicide, certes à moun voler,
Ne mal robberes pur gent damager.
Cest rym fust fet al bois desouz un lorer,
Là chaunte merle, russinole, e cyre l’esperver;
Escrit estoit en parchemyn pur mout remenbrer,
E gitté en haut chemyn, qe um le dust trover.
Translation.—I am seized with the desire to rhyme and to make a story,—of a purveyance which is provided in the land;—it would be much better if the thing were still undone:—if God does not avert it, I think that there will arise war.