Swete Sone

Swete sone, reu on me
And breste out of thy bondes
For me thinket that I see
Thoru Bothen thin bondes

Nailes driven into the tree
So reufuliche thu honges
Now is betre that I flee
And lett alle these londes

Swete sone, thy faire face
Droppet all on blode
And thy body downward
Is bounded to the rode

How may thy modress hert
Tholen so swete fode
That blessеd was of alle born