In wonderfull and curious similitude There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure, Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude, Wretched and skaled al wyth asure, Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure, Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette Spouted the water that was so dulcette. Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng; Of many floures fayre and ryally A goodly chaplet she was in makynge. Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge, Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre, Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre. Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe, She ware a fayre and goodly garment, Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe, Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent. On her fayre handes, as was convenient, A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe. In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft. And whan that I came before her presence, Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne; Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence, O stere so clere of vertuous renowne! Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne, Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes, Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse. Amoure. Please it your grace for to gyve audyence Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte; How fervent love, wythout resystence, My careful herte hath made low and faynte, And you therof are the hole constraynt; Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste, Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste. Pucell. Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace, What sodayne love hath you so arayde Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace? And why for me ye should be so dismayde? As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde. For ye of me now have no greater awe, But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw. Amoure. Than stode I up, and right so did she, Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set, That it is yours, it may none other be; Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net, That if that I may not your favour get, No doubt it is, the great payne of love May not aswage tyl death it remove. Pucell. Truely, quod she, I am obedient Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde; They shal me rule as is convenient, In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde, My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide. I thanke you for your love right humbly, But I your cause can nothing remedy. Amoure. Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed A thyng to hye truly for my degre, All that causes whych I have commysed Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte, Trustyng truely that she wold favour me. In this case wherfore now excuse Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse. Pucell.