I seye ther nas no joye ne feeste at al; Ther nas but hevynesse and muche sorwe. For prively he wedded hire on morwe, And al day after hidde hym as an owle, So wo was hym, his wyf looked so foule.
And ther as ye of poverte me reprieve, The hye God, on whom that we bileeve, In willful poverte chees to lyve his lyf. And certes every man, mayden, or wyf, May understonde that Jhesus, hevene kyng, Ne wolde nat chese a vicious lyvyng.
For, by my trouthe, I wol be to yow bothe, This is to seyn, ye, bothe fair and good. I prey to God that I moote sterven wood, But Ito yow be also good and trewe As evere was wyf, syn that the world was newe.