Now purs, that be to me my lyves light

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.

Hard is his herte that loveth nought In May.

Ful craftier to pley she was Than Athalus, that made the game First of the ches: so was his name.

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

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.