I sih, wher he the Maiden preide,
Which was the doghter, as men seide,
Sortes and Plato with him come,
I thoghte thanne how love is swete, 2720
Which hath so wise men reclamed,
And was miself the lasse aschamed,
In the meschief that I was inne:
And thus I lay in hope of grace.
(Editor：health)
