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 Think'st thou there is no count to crave Of all these gifts in thee was planted, I gave thee beauty 'bove the lave, A pregnant wit thou never wanted. Master, quoth she, it must be granted, My sins are great, give me contrition: The forlorn son when he repented, Obtain'd his father's full remission. I spar'd my judgments many times, And spiritual pastors did thee send; But thou renewd'st thy former crimes, Aye more and more me to offend. My Lord, quoth she, I do amend, Lamenting for my former vice, The poor thief at the latter end, For one word went to Paradise. The thief heard never of my teachings, My heavenly precepts and my laws, But thou wast daily at my preachings, Both heard and saw, and yet misknaws. Master, quoth she, the scripture shows, The Jewish woman which play'd the lown, Conform unto the Hebrew laws, Was brought to thee to be put down; But nevertheless thou lett'st her go, And made the Pharisees afraid. Indeed, says Christ, it was right so, And that my bidding was obey'd, Woman, he said, I may not cast The childrens bread to dogs like thee, Although my mercies yet do last, There's mercy here, but none for thee.