And syth that you are plunged all in thought, Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre; So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought. It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre, Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre; Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce, By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce. Tell me the cause, though that it be so, In cause you love I knowe it by experience, It is a payne engendryng great wo, And hard it is for to make resystence Agaynst suche love of fervent vyolence. The love is dredefull, but nevertheles There is no sore nor yet no sykenes, But there is a salve and remedy therfore; So for your payne and your sorowe great Councell is medicine, which may you restore Unto your desyre wythout any let, Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set. In the chayre of sorowe no great doubt it is To fynde a remedy for your payne, ywys. A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne; No more can I by good councell you lerne All suche wofull trouble for to determyne. But yf you mekely wyl to me enclyne, To tell the cause of your great hevynesse, Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes. Than I began with all my diligence To here him speke so grounded on reason, And in my minde did make advertence. Howe it was holsome, in tribulation, To save a good and a trewe companion; For to know my sorow and woful grefe, It myght me comforte and ryght wel relefe. And of him, than, I asked this question: What was his name I prayd him to tel? Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel. And pryvely I did his lesson spel, Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny Of al other is the moste unhappy. Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge, To you a whyle turnyng of her face, Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge, And you excepte and cal unto her grace. Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne, To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne. Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray Unto none other my mater and entent. Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day; Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may Into me put, for I shall not vary, But kepe your counsell as a secretary. And than to hym, in the maner folowynge, I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe: Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe; So wo I am, that I can never slepe, But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care; My heart was caught or that I was ware. It happened so that in a temple olde, By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte, La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde, Whose beaute clere and great humilite To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte; After whyche stroke so harde and farvent, To her excellence I came incontinent.