Ful craftier to pley she was

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Out of this toune help me through your might.

Hard is his herte that loveth nought In May.

Of alle maner of minstrales, And gestiours, that tellen tales Bothe of weping and of game, Of al that longeth unto Fame.

Soun is noght but air y-broken, And every speche that is spoken, Loud or privee, foul or fair, In his substaunce is but air; For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke, Right so soun is air y-broke.

For I am shave as nye as any frere. But yit I pray un-to youre curtesye: Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I die.

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beautè of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.