text: Of Lancelot du Lake
  Tell i no more
  But this by leave
  These ermytes seven
  But still Kynge Arthur
  Lieth there, and Quene Guenever
  As I you newyn
  And Monkes
  That are right of lore
  Who synge with moulded stewyn
  Ihesu, who hath woundes sore
  Grant us the blyss of Heaven