For what thing stant on aventure,
That can no worldes creature
Tell in certain, how it shall wende,
Till he therof may fene an ende.
So that I note as yet therfore,
If thou, my fone, haft wone or lore.
For ofte time, as it is fene,
Whan fomer hath loft all his grene
And is with winter waft and bare,
That him is left nothing to spare,
All is recovered in a throwe,
The colde windes overblowe,
And stilled ben the sharpe fhoures,
And fodeinlich ayein his floures
The fomer happneth and is riche,
And fo parcas thy grace is liche.
My fone, though thou be now pouer
Of love, yet thou might recouer.
My fader, certes graunt mercy,
Ye have me taught fo redily,
That ever while I live fhall
The better I may be ware with all
Of thing, which ye have said er this.
But evermore how that it is
Toward my fhrifte, as it belongeth,
To wit of other points me longeth,
Wherof that ye me wolden teche
With all min herte I you befeche.