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That shall I not; though that I contynewe
All my lyfe in payne and hevynes,
I shall not chaunge you for none other new;
You are my lady, you are my masteres,
Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes.
Exyle him never from your hert so dere,
Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.
The minde of men chaungeth as the mone.
If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght,
Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone,
An other fayrer unto your owne syght.
Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght,
Truely your love, though ye make it straunge,
I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge.
Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde, Thoughe that my body be from you aferre, Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde, Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde.
Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne,
For I therof take no possessyon;
Your heart is your by substancyall lyne,
It is not in my domynacyon.
Love where ye list; at every season
Your heart is fre, I do not it accept:
It is your owne, I have it never kept.
Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste,
With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare;
Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst,
Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care,
That of all joye I am devoyde and bare.
I se you ryght often when I am aslepe,
And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.
So great deceyt amonge men there is,
That harde it is to finde one full stable;
Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis:
Your great deceyte is nothing commendable.
In storyes olde it is well provable
How many ladyes hath bene right falsely
Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly.
O goodd madame! though that they abused
Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte,
Yet am I true; let me not be refused:
Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte,
That ye shall never out of my conceyte.
I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke,
My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke.
Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll;
Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large;
For men say wel, but they thinke full yll.
Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge,
your heart I never can have charge;
For men do love, as I am right sure,
Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure.
All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly,
Some men there be of that condicyon;
That them delyte often in novelty,
And many also love perfeccyon.
I cast all suche noveltes in objection;
My love is set upon a perfet grounde,
No falshed in me truly shal be founde.
saye full well, yf ye meane the same; But I in you can have no confydence; I thinke right well that it is no game To love unloved wyth percynge influence. You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty, As two or thre to me doth specify.
Was never lover without enemies thre,
As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce?
Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte;
What man on live can use suche governaunce
To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce
Of every persone, but right pryvely
Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely?
Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace,
Your love and myne is full ferre asunder:
But thoughe that I do your herte so race
Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder;
Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under,
I dare not love but as they accorde,
They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.
I knowe, madame, that your frendes all
Unto me sure wyll be contraryous;
But what for that? your selfe in speciall
Remembre there is no love so joyous
As is your owne to you most precyous;
Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege
To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?
Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe,
To wed for fere, as them to obey;
Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe,
For I my selfe do bere the locke and kaye
Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye.
Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do
I stand untyed, there is no joye therto.
O swete lady! the good perfyte sterre
Of my true herte, take ye now pyte;
Thynke on my payne whiche am tofore you here,
Wyth your swete eyes beholde you and se,
How thought and wo, by great extremyte,
Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne:
It was not so whan I to love began.
So, me thynke, it doth right well appere
By your coloure that love hath done you wo;
Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere;
Hath love suche myght for to aray you so
In so short a space? I marvayle moche also
That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne,
Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne?
My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why;
Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete
My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly
At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete;
In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete,
Your beaute my herte so surely assayde,
That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.
HOW LA BELL PUCELL GRAUNTED GRAUND AMOURE LOVE, AND OF HER DISPITEOUS DEPARTAGE.
YOUR WO and payne, and all your languishynge
Continually ye shall not spende in vayne,
Sythen I am cause of your great mornynge,
Nothynge exyle you shall I by dysdayne;
Youre hert and myne shall never parte in twayne:
Though at the fyrste I wolde not condescende,
It was for fere ye dyde some yll entende.
With thought of yll my mynde was never myxte,
To you, madame, but alway clene and pure,
Bothe daye and nyght upon you hole perfyxte.
But I my mynde yet durst nothynge discure,
How for your sake I dyd suche wo endure,
Tyll now this houre with dredfull hert so faynt
To you, swete herte, I have made my complaynt.