I leve,
He sholde stonde starc naked twye o day or eve.
Godes soule is al day sworn, the knif stant a-strout,
And thouh the botes be torn, ȝit wole he maken hit stout;
The hod hangeth on his brest, as he wolde spewe therinne,
Ac shortliche al his contrefaiture is colour of sinne, 280
and bost,
To wraththe God and paien the fend hit serveth allermost.
A newe taille of squierie is nu in everi toun;