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MY Bucks feede not, my Eaves breed not,
My Rams freed not, all is a mix
Lone is dying, Fathes defying,
Harts denying, cauler of this.
All my merry leggers are quite forgot,
All my Ladies loutis lott (god wot)
Where her faith was firmly first in love,
There a nay is place without remove.
One silly cradle, wrought all my lofts,
O frowning fortune curled fickle dame,
For now I see, inconstancy,
More in woven then in men remain.
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