_
Me thinks thee put in a mad purpose,
And busiest thee about a reason bref. _poor object._
For that thou lostest was but a rose,
That flowered and failed as kynd hit gef. _nature gave it._
Now through kind of the chest that it gan close, _nature._
To a pearl of price it is put in pref;[26]
And thou hast called thy wyrde a thef, _doom, fate: theft._
That ought of nought has made thee, clear! _something of nothing._
Thou blamest the bote of thy mischef: _remedy: hurt._
Thou art no kynde jeweller." _natural, reasonable._
When the father pours out his gladness at the sight of her, she rejoins
in these words:
"I hold that jeweller little to praise
That loves well that he sees with eye;
And much to blame, and uncortoyse, _uncourteous._
That leves our Lord would make a lie, _believes._
That lelly hyghte your life to raise _who truly promised._
Though fortune did your flesh to die; _caused._
To set his words full westernays[27]
That love no thing but ye it syghe! _see._
And that is a point of surquedrie, _presumption._
That each good man may evil beseem, _ill become._
To leve no tale be true to tryghe, _trust in._
But that his one skill may deme.
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