Sum bird will bay at my beike, and come will ine byte, Sum ſkripe me with ſcorne, ſum ſkrym at myn e; J ſe be my ſchadowe my ſchape has the wyte: Duhom fall J blame in this breth, a byſyn that 3 be, JS nane bot dame Patur J bid nocht to nyte, Till accuſe of this caiſe, in caſe that 3 de; Bot quha ſall mak me ane mendis of hit worth a myte, That thus has maid on the mold ane monſtour ine: 3 will appele to the Pape, and pas till him plane : ffor happin that his halynace, Throw prayer may purchace, To reforme my foule face, and than war 3 fane. Fayne wald J wyte, quoth the fyle, or J furth fure, Duha is fader of all foule, paftour and pape; That is the plefant Pacok, precious and pure, Conſtant and kirklyk vnder his clev cape, myterit, as the maner is, manſwet and mure, Schroude in his ſchene weid, ſchand in his ſchap, Sad in his fanctitud, ſekerly and ſure, I will go to that gud, his grace for to grap. De that bourde J was blythe and bade to behald, The Howlet wylelt in wyce, Raikit under the rys, To the Pacoke of pryce, That was Pape cald.
