Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce, The stroke of love I coulde nothynge resyste: And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce, To her I wente, or that her person wyste; Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst; By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte, And dyd my selfe wyth her sone acquaynt. The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde Of dame Musyke the dulcet armony; The eres herde not, for the mynde inwarde Venus had rapte and taken fervently: Imaginacion wrought full prively. The fantasy gave perfyte jugement Alway to her for to be obedyent. By estymacion muche doubtfully I cast Whether I should by long tyme and space Atteyne her, or els to love in wast. My herte sobbed and quaked in this case; I stode by her ryght nere in the place, Wyth many other fayre ladyes also, But so fayre as she I never sawe no mo. The feste done, dame Musyke dyd go; She folowed after, and she wolde not tary. Fare well, she sayde, for I must parte you fro. Alas! thought I, that fortune doth so vary; My sadde body my hevy hert did cary; I coude not speke, my herte was nere broken, But wyth my head I made her a token. Whan she was gone, inwardly than wrought Upon her beaute my mynde retentyfe; Her goodly fygure I graved in my thought; Except her selfe all were expulcyfe; My mynde to her was so ententyfe, That I folowed her into a temple ferre, Replete wyth joy, as bryght as any sterre; Where dulcet Flora her aromatyke dewe In the fayre temple adowne dyd dystyll, All abrode the fayre dropes dyd shewe, Encensynge out all the vapours yll; With suche a swetenes Flora dyd fulfyll All the temple, that my gowne well shewed The lycoure swete of the droppes endewed. And so to a chambre full solacyous Dame Musyke wente wyth La Bell Pucell; All of jasper, wyth stones precyous, The rofe was wrought, curyously and well; The wyndowes glased marvaylously to tell. With cloth of tyssue in the rychest maner The walles were hanged hye and cyrculer. There sat dame Musyke, with all her mynstrasy; As tabours, trumpettes, with pipes melodious, Sakbuttes, organs, and the recorder swetely, Harpes, lutes, and crouddes ryght delycyous; Cymphans, doussemers, wyth claricimbales glorious. Rebeckes, clarycordes, eche in theyr degre, Dyd sytte aboute theyr ladyes mageste. Before dame Musike I dyd knele adowne, Saying to her: O fayre lady plesaunt, Your prudence reyneth most hye in renowne, For you be ever ryght concordant With perfyte reason, whiche is not variaunt; I beseche your grace, with all my diligence, To instructe me in your noble science. It is, she sayde, right gretely proffitable; For musike doth sette in all unyte The discorde thynges whiche are variable And devoydeth myschiefe and greate iniquite. Where lacketh musyke there is no pleynte; For musyke is concorde and also peace, Nothyng without musyke may well encreace.