This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

To Maken Vertue Of Necessite.

Thus With Hir Fader For A Certeyn Space Dwelleth This Flour Of Wyfly Pacience, That Neither By Hir Wordes Ne Hir Face Biforn The Folk, Ne Eek In Her Absence, Ne Shewed She That Hir Was Doon Offence.

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.