Who spareth to speke he spareth to spede; I shall provyde for you convenyent A gentyl tyme for to attayne your mede, That you shall go to your lady excellent; And ryght before take good advysement Of all the matter that ye wyl her shewe, Upon good reason and in wordes fewe. Thus past we tyme in communicacyon, The after none wyth many a sentement, And what for love was best conclusyon We demed oft and gave judgement; Tyll that in the even was refulgent Fayre golden Mercury, wyth hys bemes bryght, About the ayre castinge his pured lyght. Then to a chambre swete and precyous, Councell me ledde, for to take my reste. The night was wete, and also tenebrous; But I my selfe, with sorowe opprest, Dyd often muse what was for me best Unto my fayre lady for to tell or saye, And all my drede was for fere of a naye. Though that my bedde was easy and softe, Yet dyd I tomble, I myght not lye styll; On every syde I tourned me ful ofte, Upon the love I had so set my wyll, Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll, I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake To gyve me counseyle what were best to take. Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke, That yet your heart will nothynge be eased, But evermore be feble and sycke, Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed; Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed. I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say. Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away, And lyve in hope, whych shall do you good. Joy cometh after, whan the payne is past. Be ye pacyent and sobre in mode; To wepe and wayle all is for you in wast: Was never payne, but it had joye at last. In the fayre morrow, ryse and make you redy, At ix. at the clocke, the time is necessary For us to walke unto your lady gent; The bodyes above be than well domysyde To helpe us forwarde without ympediment. Loke what ye saye; loke it be deryfyde Frome perfyt reason well exemplyfyde; Forsake her not, thoughe that she say naye, A womans guyse is evermore to delaye. No castell can be of so great a strength, If that there be a sure syege to it layde, It must yelde up or els be wonne at length, Though that tofore it hath bene longe delayde. So continuance may you ryght wel ayde. Some womans herte can not so harded be, But besy labour may make it agre. Labour and dylygence is full mervaylus, Whych bryngeth a lover to his promocyon. Nothyng to love, is more desyrous Than instant labour and delectacyon: The harded harte it geveth occasyon For to consider how that her servaunt To obtayne her love is so attendaunt. Thus al in comonyng we the nyght did passe, Tyll in the ayre wyth clowdes fayre and red Rysyn was Phebus, shynyng in the glasse, In the chamber his golden rayes were spred, And Dyane derlyng pale as any leade, Whan the lytle byrdes swetely dyd syng With tunes musicall in the fayre mornyng.