For to drawen out the shafte, And ther-with-al I sighed eft. But in myn herte the heed was left, Which ay encresid my desyre, 1785 Unto the botoun drawe nere; And ever, mo that me was wo, The more desyr hadde I to go Unto the roser, where that grew The fresshe botoun so bright of hewe. 1790 Betir me were have leten be; But it bihoved nedes me To don right as myn herte bad. For ever the body must be lad Aftir the herte; in wele and wo, 1795 Of force togidre they must go. But never this archer wolde fyne To shete at me with alle his pyne, And for to make me to him mete. The thridde arowe he gan to shete, 1800 Whan best his tyme he mighte espye, The which was named Curtesye; Into myn herte it dide avale. A-swone I fel, bothe deed and pale; Long tyme I lay, and stired nought, 1805 Til I abraid out of my thought. And faste than I avysed me To drawen out the shafte of tree; But ever the heed was left bihinde For ought I couthe pulle or winde. 1810 So sore it stikid whan I was hit, That by no craft I might it flit; But anguissous and ful of thought, I felte such wo, my wounde ay wrought, That somoned me alway to go 1815 Toward the rose, that plesed me so; But I ne durste in no manere, Bicause the archer was so nere. For evermore gladly, as I rede, Brent child of fyr hath muche drede. 1820 And, certis yit, for al my peyne, Though that I sigh yit arwis reyne, And grounde quarels sharpe of stele, Ne for no payne that I might fele, Yit might I not my-silf withholde 1825 The faire roser to biholde; For Love me yaf sich hardement For to fulfille his comaundement. Upon my feet I roos up than Feble, as a forwoundid man; 1830 And forth to gon [my] might I sette, And for the archer nolde I lette. Toward the roser fast I drow; But thornes sharpe mo than y-now Ther were, and also thistels thikke, 1835 And breres, brimme for to prikke, That I ne mighte gete grace The rowe thornes for to passe, To sene the roses fresshe of hewe. I must abide, though it me rewe, 1840 The hegge aboute so thikke was, That closid the roses in compas. But o thing lyked me right wele; I was so nygh, I mighte fele Of the botoun the swote odour, 1845 And also see the fresshe colour; And that right gretly lyked me, That I so neer it mighte see. Sich Ioye anoon therof hadde I, That I forgat my malady. 1850 To sene [it] hadde I sich delyt, Of sorwe and angre I was al quit, And of my woundes that I had thar; For no-thing lyken me might mar Than dwellen by the roser ay, 1855 And thennes never to passe away. But whan a whyle I had be thar, The God of Love, which al to-shar