The vii. scyences in one monacorde, Eche upon other do full well depende; Musyke hath them so set in concorde, That all in one may right well extende. All perfite reason they do so comprehende, That theyr waye and perfite doctryne To the joye above, whiche is celestine. And yet also the perfite physyke, Which appertayneth well to the body, Doth well resemble unto the musyke, Whan the inwarde intrayles tourneth contrary, That nature can not worke dyrectly; Then doth physike the partes interiall In ordre set to their originall. But yet physyke can not be lyberall As the vii. science by good auctorite, Which ledeth the soule the way in specyall By good doctrine to dame Eternite; Onely of phisike it is the properte To ayde the body in every sekenes, That is right frayle and full of bryttilnes. And because phisyke is appendaunt Unto the body by helpe of medecyne, And to the soule nothing approtenaunt, To cause the body for to enclyne In eternal helth so the soule to domyne, For to the body the science seven Doth teche to lede the soule to heven. And musike selfe is melodious To rejoyce the yeres and comfort the brayne, Sharping the wittes with sounde solacious, Devoydyng bad thoughtes whiche dyd remayne, It gladdeth the herte also well certayne; Lengthe the lyfe with dulcet armony, As is good recreacion after study. She commaunded her mynstrelles right anone to play Mamours the swete and the gentill daunce; With La Bell Pucell, that was fayre and gaye, She me recommaunded, with all pleasaunce, To daunce true mesures without varyaunce. O Lorde God! how glad than was I, So for to daunce with my swete lady. By her propre hande, soft as any sylke, With due obeysaunce I dyd her then take; Her skynne was white as whales bone or mylke. My thought was ravysshed, I might not aslake My brennynge hert, she the fyre dyd make; These daunces truely musyke hath me tought To lute or daunce, but it avayleth nought: For the fyre kyndled, and waxed more and more, The dauncynge blewe it, wyth her beaute clere, My hert sekened and began to waxe sore; A mynute vi. houres, and vi. houres a yere I thought it was, so hevy was my chere; But yet for cover my great love aryght, The outwarde countenaunce I made glad and light. CAP. XVII. HOWE GRAUNDE AMOURE WAS ENAMOURED OF LA BELL PUCELL IN THE TOWER OF MUSIKE, AND MET WITH COUNSAYLE IN A TEMPLE And for fere myne eyes should my hert bewray, I toke my leve and to a temple wente, And all alone I to my selfe dyd saye: Alas! what fortune hath me hyther sente, To devoyde my joye and my hert torment; No man can tell howe great payne it is, But yf he wyll fele it, as I do ywys.