Alas! O lady, how cruell arte thou, Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe! Yet of all ladyes I must love the best; Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest. Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please, Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease. Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe; My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle, That sodaynly my herte was in a trap By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap, That through the greate stroke did perse: Alas for wo I could not reverse! Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure! Fare wel my luste and my lykynge! For wo is comen wyth me to endure; Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge; I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge! O! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious; You are the cause that I am so dolorous. Alas! fayre lady, and myne owne swete herte, Wyth my servyce I yelde me to your wyll, You have me fettered; I may not asterte; At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll; Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl? Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede, That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede. A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone, For I of love dare not to you speke, For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone; A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke. Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke Into suche trouble, misery, and thought: With sight of you I am into it brought. And to my selfe as I made complainte, I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne, Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt. Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne, Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne. Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne. Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double; Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde. Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble, And of my wo be nothynge afrayde. Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde: Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde, It may me happe a remedy to fynde. A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche, I wyll wyth you never have medlynge. Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge. Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng; Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur. Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre; The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be: And secondly, in great paynes stronge, To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge: The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty. It is a jewel of a frende of trust, As at your nede to tell your secretenes Of all your payne and fervent lust. His counseyle soone may helpe and redres Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes; Alone is nought for to thynke and muse, Therfore, good sonne, do me not refuse.