"Sir, ye have your tale myse-tente, _mistaken._
To say your pearl is all away,
That is in coffer so comely clente _clenched._
As in this garden gracious gay,
Herein to lenge for ever and play, _abide._
There mys nor mourning come never--here, _where: wrong._
Here was a forser for thee in faye, _strong-box: faith._
If thou wert a gentle jeweller.

"But jeweller gente, if thou shalt lose
Thy joy for a gem that thee was lef, _had left thee._
Me thinks thee put in a mad purpose,
And busiest thee about a reason bref. _poor object._
For that thou lostest was but a rose,
That flowered and failed as kynd hit gef. _nature gave it._
Now through kind of the chest that it gan close, _nature._
To a pearl of price it is put in pref;[26]
And thou hast called thy wyrde a thef, _doom, fate: theft._
That ought of nought has made thee, clear! _something of nothing._
Thou blamest the bote of thy mischef: _remedy: hurt._
Thou art no kyndé jeweller." _natural, reasonable._

When the father pours out his gladness at the sight of her, she rejoins
in these words:

"I hold that jeweller little to praise
That loves well that he sees with eye;
And much to blame, and uncortoyse, _uncourteous._
That leves our Lord would make a lie, _believes._