And some man would out of his prison fain, That in his house is of his meinie 369 slain. Infinite harmës be in this mattére. We wot never what thing we pray for here. We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse. A drunken man wot well he hath an house, But he wot not which is the right way thither, And to a drunken man the way is slither. 370 And certes in this world so farë we. We seekë fast after felicity, But we go wrong full often truëly. Thus we may sayen all, and namely 371 I, That ween’d, 372 and had a great opinión, That if I might escapë from prisón Then had I been in joy and perfect heal, Where now I am exiled from my weal. Since that I may not see you, Emily,