Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce, Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature, I regestered well in my remembraunce That I never sawe so fayre a creature, So well favoured create by nature; That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke All the beaute, or any hert to thynke. Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne, Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte, Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne, Alcumena, or quene Menelape; Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte, None of all these can have the premynence. Durynge the feest I stode her nere by, But than hir beaute encreased my payne; I coude nothyng resyst the contrary; She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne. To the musycall toure she went than agayne; I wente after, I roude not behynde. The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde, Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye, Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy, Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe, That them to here it was great melody; And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce, Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace, And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace; Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde, And to thys temple where I do abyde Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle. Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe Of my wofull chaunce and great unhappynesse. I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe, Whyche am drouned in carefull wrethchednesse, By fortune plunged ful of doublenes. A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele, But your disease I shal by wysdome hele. Remember yet, that never yet was he, That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte; No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe, For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe. Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply To take the payne wyth hys cure besely. To serve the joye whych after death ensue, Rewardyng payne for the great businesse, No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue, Seing you apply all your gentylnes To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles. Harde is the heart that no love hath felt. Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt. Remember ye that in olde antiquyte Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion, What paine he suffered by great extremyte Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason, For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon. After his sorowe had not he great joye Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye? And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus, Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly, What payne had he and what care dolorus For his lady wyth love so marvaylously, Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully? After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure, To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.