Ne lyk the pittë of the Pegacè Under Pernaso, where poetës slepte; Nor lyk the welle of pure chastitè Which that Dyane with her nymphes kepte, 95 Whan she naked into the water lepte, That slow Acteon with his houndes felle Only for he cam so nigh the welle! Bút this welle, that I here reherce, So hoolsom was, that it wolde aswage 100 Bollen hertes, and the venim perce Of pensifheed, with al the cruel rage, And evermore refresshe the visage Of hem that were in any werinesse Of greet labour, or fallen in distresse. 105 And I, that had, through daunger and disdayne, So drye a thrust, thoughte I wolde assaye To taste a draughte of this welle, or twayne, My bitter langour if it mighte alaye; And on the banke anon adoun I lay, 110 And with myn heed unto the welle I raughte, And of the water drank I a good draughte; Wherof, me thought, I was refresshed wele Of the brenning that sat so nigh my herte, That verily anon I gan to fele 115 An huge part relesed of my smerte; And therwithallë anon up I sterte, And thoughte I wolde walke, and see more Forth in the parke, and in the holtes hore. And through a laundë as I yede a-pace 120 And gan aboute faste to beholde, I found anon a délitable place That was beset with treës yonge and olde, Whose names here for me shal not be tolde; Amidde of whiche stood an herber grene, 125 That benched was, with colours newe and clene. Thís herber was ful of floures inde, In-to the whiche as I beholde gan, Betwix an hulfere and a wodëbinde, As I was war, I saw wher lay a man 130 In blakke and whyte colour, pale and wan, And wonder deedly also of his hewe, Of hurtes grene and fresshe woundes newe. And overmore distrayned with sekenesse, Besyde al this, he was, ful grevously; 135 For upon him he had an hoot accesse, That day by day him shook ful pitously; So that, for constreynt of his malady And hertly wo, thus lying al alone, It was a deeth for to here him grone. 140 Wherof astonied, my foot I gan withdrawe, Greetly wondring what it mighte be That he so lay, and hadde no felawe, Ne that I coude no wight with him see; Wherof I hadde routhe, and eek pitè, 145 And gan anon, so softely as I coude, Among the busshes me prively to shroude; If that I mighte in any wyse espye What was the cause of his deedly wo, Or why that he so pitously gan crye 150 On his fortune, and on his ure also; With al my might I layde an ere to, Every word to marke, what he seyde, Out of his swough among as he abrayde.