I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere, And wayke been the oxen in my plough. The remenant of the tale is long ynough. I wol nat letten eek noon of this route; Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute, And lat se now who shal the soper wynne; And there I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne.
A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed. He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed, Al be she mayde, or wydwe, or ells wyf. And eek it is nat likly al thy lyf To stonden in hir grace; namoore shal I[.]
Who koude ryme in Englyssh properly His martyrdom? For sothe it am nat I; Therfore I passe as lightly as I may.