[Verse 1]
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

[Verse 2]
And Monkes
That are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore
Grant us the blyss of Heaven