The Fields Have Eyes, And The Woods

And For To See, And Eek For To Be Seie.

Felds Hath Eyen, And Wode Have Eres.

Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of Gilt Spurs Maketh No Knight.

Who Looks At Me, Beholdeth Sorrows All, All Pain, All Torture, Woe And All Distress; I Have No Need On Other Harms To Call, As Anguish, Languor, Cruel Bitterness, Discomfort, Dread, And Madness More And Less; Methinks From Heaven Above The Tears Must Rain In Pity For My Harsh And Cruel Pain.

Ful Wys Is He That Kan Hymselven Knowe.