"Sonne, on my blissyng, trowe þou not his sawe,
"Bot late him haf endyng, als a traytour þorgh lawe.
¶ þe kyng wrote his lettere agayn to þe Justise,
þat he wist non bettere, bot do him to Juwise,
For alle þat he has said he don vnder fote
Tille þis werld be, it it ȝit no tyme to mote.
¶ Now þe Turbeuile has his jugement,
Drawen is a while on London pauiment,
& siþen was he hanged as thef for treson,
Faire grace Edward fanged in his tribulacion.
NOW is þis wikhals dede þorgh vengeance,
& þe Cardinals gon er in to France.
Oft for þe pes with Philip mad bergayn,
Unto þat conseil ches þe kyng of Almayn,
Clerkis bituex þam sent hidir to Edward,
What þer conseil ment, þe distance so hard.
þe wrath was so grete bituex þise kynges tuo,
Unnethis acorde þei schete, bot þus with mykelle wo.
¶ To Kaunbray suld þei send men þat were of Gode,
þat þer greuance kend, þe distance vnderstode.
Clerkis & lewed men suld deme at Kaunbray,
& trie þe soth & ken, in whom þe wrong lay:
To what manere of pes þe parties wille descend,
& who þe wrong first ches, þat partie suld amend.
To þo ilk resons þe Inglis wer assent,
Bisshopes & barons were gode of þo þat went.
