That which is marred at birth Time shall not mend,
Nor water out of bitter well make clean;
All evil thing returneth at the end,
Or elseway walketh in our blood unseen.
Whereby the more is sorrow in certaine—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not agen.
To—bruized be that slender, sterting spray
Out of the oake’s rind that should betide
A branch of girt and goodliness, straightway
Her spring is turned on herself, and wried
And knotted like some gall or veiney wen—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe.
Noontide repayeth never morning—bliss—
Sith noon to morn is incomparable;
And, so it be our dawning goth amiss,
None other after—hour serveth well.
Ah! Jesu—Moder, pitie my oe paine—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe!