Ye, fader, be seint Julien, Bot I untrewe wordes use, I mai me noght therof excuse: And al makth love, wel I wot, Of which myn herte is evere hot, So that I brenne as doth a glede For Wrathe that I mai noght spede. 40 And thus fulofte a day for noght Save onlich of myn oghne thoght I am so with miselven wroth, That how so that the game goth With othre men, I am noght glad; Bot I am wel the more unglad, For that is othre mennes game It torneth me to pure grame. Thus am I with miself oppressed Of thoght, the which I have impressed, 50 That al wakende I dreme and meete That I with hire al one meete And preie hire of som good ansuere: Bot for sche wol noght gladly swere, Sche seith me nay withouten oth; And thus wexe I withinne wroth, That outward I am al affraied, And so distempred and esmaied. A thousand times on a day Ther souneth in myn Eres nay, 60 The which sche seide me tofore: Thus be my wittes as forlore; And namely whan I beginne To rekne with miself withinne How many yeres ben agon, Siththe I have trewly loved on And nevere tok of other hede, And evere aliche fer to spede I am, the more I with hir dele, So that myn happ and al myn hele 70 Me thenkth is ay the leng the ferre, That bringth my gladschip out of herre, Wherof my wittes ben empeired, And I, as who seith, al despeired. For finaly, whan that I muse And thenke how sche me wol refuse, I am with anger so bestad, For al this world mihte I be glad: And for the while that it lasteth Al up so doun my joie it casteth, 80 And ay the furthere that I be, Whan I ne may my ladi se, The more I am redy to wraththe, That for the touchinge of a laththe Or for the torninge of a stree I wode as doth the wylde Se, And am so malencolious, That ther nys servant in myn hous Ne non of tho that ben aboute, That ech of hem ne stant in doute, 90 And wenen that I scholde rave For Anger that thei se me have; And so thei wondre more and lasse, Til that thei sen it overpasse. Bot, fader, if it so betide, That I aproche at eny tide The place wher my ladi is, And thanne that hire like ywiss To speke a goodli word untome, For al the gold that is in Rome 100 Ne cowthe I after that be wroth, Bot al myn Anger overgoth; So glad I am of the presence Of hire, that I all offence Foryete, as thogh it were noght, So overgladed is my thoght. And natheles, the soth to telle, Ayeinward if it so befelle That I at thilke time sihe On me that sche miscaste hire yhe, 110 Or that sche liste noght to loke, And I therof good hiede toke, Anon into my ferste astat I torne, and am with al so mat, That evere it is aliche wicke. And thus myn hand ayein the pricke I hurte and have do many day, And go so forth as I go may, Fulofte bitinge on my lippe, And make unto miself a whippe. 120 With which in many a chele and hete Mi wofull herte is so tobete, That all my wittes ben unsofte And I am wroth, I not how ofte; And al it is Malencolie, Which groweth of the fantasie Of love, that me wol noght loute: