That which is marred at birth Time shall not mend,
Nor water out of bitter well make clean;
All evil thing returneth at the end,
Or elsewhere walketh in our blood unseen.
Whereby the more is sorrow in certaine -- 
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe.

Too bruizèd be that slender, sterting spray
Out of the oakes rind that should betide
A branch of girt and goodliness, straightway
Her spring is turned on herself, and wried
And knotted like some gall or veiney wen -- 
Dayspring mishandled cometh not agen.

Noontide repayeth never morning-bliss -- 
Sith noon to morn is incomparable;
And, so it be our dawning goth amiss,
None other after-hour serveth well.
Ah! Jesu-Moder, pitie my oe paine -- 
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe!