“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you all this rout, 1403 The fourthë partie of this day is gone. Now for the love of God and of Saint John Losë no time, as farforth as ye may. Lordings, the timë wasteth night and day, And steals from us, what privily sleepíng, And what through negligence in our wakíng, As doth the stream, that turneth never again, Descending from the mountain to the plain. Well might Senec, and many a philosópher, Bewailë timë more than gold in coffer. For loss of chattels may recover’d be, But loss of timë shendeth 1404 us, quoth he. It will not come again, withoutë dread, 1405 No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead, 1406 When she hath lost it in her wantonness. Let us not mouldë thus in idleness. Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss, Tell us a tale anon, as forword is.