Who was wyth love more wofully arayed, Than were these twayne, and many other mo? The power of love hath them so asayde, That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo, And at the ende have had their desyre, Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre. Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte, Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope; And kepe your love all close and coverte; It may so fortune that your lady grope Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope; Though outwardly she dare not let you know, But at the last, as I beleve and trowe, She can not kepe it so prively and close, But that somwhat to you it shal appere, By countenaunce, how that her love arose. If that she love you, the love is so dere, Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere With countenaunce, accordyng unto love, Full pryvely for to come to her above. Sendyng of love the messanger before, Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete, For to beholde you than ever more and more, After the tyme that you together mete. With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete. Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde That at the last she wyl be good and kynd. Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre, Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce: I fere to sore I shal disdayned be, The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce. Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce: I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches, To wynne the favour of her noblenes. What thoughe? quod he, draw you not abacke, For she hath inough in her possession For you both; for you shal never lacke If that ye order it by good reason; And so, in perfite consyderacyon, She wyll wyth love her grene flouryng age Passe forth in joye, pleasure, and courage. Youth is alway of the course ryght lyght, Hote, and moyste, and full of lustines, Moost of the ayre it is ruled by ryght, And her complexion hath chefe intres Upon sanguyn, the ayres holsomnes. She is not yet in al above xviii. yere; Of tender age, to pleasure most dere. Golde, or sylver, in any maner of wyse, For sanguyne youth it is al contrary; So for to coveyte for it, doth aryse Onely engendred upon the melancoly, Whych is drye, colde, and also erthely, In which the golde is truely nutryfyde, Ferre frome the ayre so clerely purifyed. Thus covetyse shal nothyng surmount Your yonge ladyes herte; but onely nature Shal in her mynde make her to account The great losse of youth, her specyal treasure. She knoweth she is a ryght fayre creature, No doubte it is but ye pryvely amonge, So hye is nature wyth his werkes stronge. That she of force the mannes company Must well conveyte; for she may not resyste Dame natures werke, which is so secretely. Thoughe she be mayde, let her say what she lyst, She wolde have man, though do man it wyst To make her joye whan nature doth agre, Her thought is hers, it is unto her fre.