For fayth nor ooth, word, ne assuraunce, Trewe mening, awayte, or besinesse, Stille port, ne faythful attendaunce, Manhood, ne might, in armes worthinesse, 410 Pursute of worship, nor no hy prowesse, In straunge lande ryding, ne travayle, Ful lyte or nought in lovë doth avayle. Peril of dethe, nother in see ne lande, Hunger ne thurst, sorowe ne sekenesse, 415 Ne grete empryses for to take on hande, Sheding of blode, ne manful hardinesse, Ne ofte woundinge at sautes by distresse, Nor +juparting of lyf, nor deeth also-- Al is for nought, Love taketh no hede therto! 420 But lesings, with hir false flaterye, Through hir falshede, and with hir doublenesse, With tales newe and many fayned lye, By fals semblaunt and counterfet humblesse, Under colour depeynt with stedfastnesse, 425 With fraude covered under a pitous face Accepte been now rathest unto grace, And can hem-selve now best magnifye With fayned port and fals presumpcioun; They haunce hir cause with fals surquedrye 430 Under meninge of double entencioun, To thenken oon in hir opinioun And saye another; to sette hemselve alofte And hinder trouthe, as it is seyn ful ofte. The whiche thing I bye now al to dere, 435 Thanked be Venus and the god Cupyde! As it is sene by myn oppressed chere, And by his arowes that stiken in my syde, That, sauf the deth, I nothing abyde Fro day to day; alas, the harde whyle! 440 Whan ever his dart that him list to fyle, My woful herte for to ryve a-two For faute of mercy, and lak of pitè Of her that causeth al my payne and wo And list not ones, of grace, for to see 445 Unto my trouthe through her crueltee; And, most of alle, yit I me complayne, That she hath joy to laughen at my peyne! And wilfully hath [she] my deeth y-sworn Al giltëlees, and wot no cause why 450 Save for the trouthe that I have had aforn To her alone to serve faithfully! O god of lovë! unto thee I cry, And to thy blinde double deitee Of this gret wrongë I compleyne me, 455 And to thy stormy wilful variaunce Y-meynt with chaunge and greet unstablenesse; Now up, now doun, so renning is thy chaunce, That thee to truste may be no sikernesse. I wyte it nothing but thy doublenesse; 460 And who that is an archer and is +blent Marketh nothing, but sheteth as he +went. And for that he hath no discrecioun, Withoute avys he let his arowe go; For lakke of sight, and also of resoun, 465 In his shetinge, it happeth ofte so, To hurte his frend rather than his fo; So doth this god, [and] with his sharpe floon The trewe sleeth, and let the false goon.