¶ Blyndid were hise faire yȝen,
And al his fleisch bloodi for-bete;
Hise [page 100] louesum lijf þat alle men siȝe[n],
Ful myldeli he out gan lete.
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¶ Deed & lijf bigunne to striuen
Wheþer myȝt be maister þere;
Liif was slayn, & roos a-ȝen;
In-to blis ful fair may we fare.
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¶ He þat þee bouȝt haue al þi þouȝt,
And lede he it in to his loore;
Ȝeue al þin herte to crist in qwarte,
And so to loue him euermore.
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¶ I siȝe, y sobbe, boþe day & nyȝt,
For oon þat is so fair of hue;
Þere is no þing myn herte may liȝt
But his loue þat is so true.
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¶ Who so hadde him in his siȝte,
Or in his herte him knewe,
His moornynge schulde turne into ioie briȝt,
His longynge into glewe.
Line 236
¶ In mirþe lyueþ he nyȝt & day
Þat loueþ þat sweete childe;
Wraþþe wolde from him awey,
Were he neuere so wielde.
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¶ It is ihesu, forsoþe to say, [page 101]
Of alle meekist & myelde;
He þat in herte him loueþ þat day,
From yuel he wole him schielde.
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¶ Of ihesu Þanne moost list me speke,
Þat may of al my bale be bote;
Me þinkeþ myn herte wole al to-breke
Whanne y þinke on þat soote.
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