Ne can I not to you devise,
My witte ne may not me suffise;
But nathelesse all the substaunce
I have yet in my remembraunce,
For why? Me thoughtin, by saint Gile,
All was of stone of berile,
Bothe the castel and the toure,
And eke the hall, and every boure;
Without peeces or joynings,
But many subtell compassings,