I send you herewith a copy of an ancient ballad which I found this day while in search of other matters. I have endeavoured to explain away the strange orthography, and I have conjecturally supplied the last line. The ballad is unhappily imperfect. I trust that abler antiquaries than myself will give their attention to this fragmentary poem.
"A BALADE OF TROUTHE.
(Harl. MSS. No. 48. folio 92.)
"What more poyson . than ys venome.
What more spytefull . than ys troozte.[[1]]
Where shall hattred . sonere come.
Than oone anothyr . that troozte showthe.
5
Undoyng dysplesure . no love growthe.
And to grete[[2]] men . in especyall.