Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery? Your fayned wordes shall not me appese To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly; For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose But for to prove me you flatter and glose. You shall not dye as longe as you speke, There is no love can cause your herte to breke. Amoure. I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde, How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe; Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde, But that some grace I myght in you fynde, To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure. Pucell. By veraye reason I may give judgement, That it is guyse of you everychone To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument, Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone: But of you true is there fewe or none. For all your payne and wordes eloquent, Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent. Amoure. O swete madame! now all my desteny Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe: Yf that you call me unto your mercy Of all happy the most happy, I trow, Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe; And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake, Of all unhappy none shal be my make. Pucell. Your fortune on me is not more applyed, Than upon other, for my minde is fre; I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed, You knowe your answere now certayne; What nede your wordes of curyosyte? Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede; Go love another where ye may have mede. Amoure. That shall I not; though that I contynewe All my lyfe in payne and hevynes, I shall not chaunge you for none other new; You are my lady, you are my masteres, Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes. Exyle him never from your hert so dere, Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere. Pucell. The minde of men chaungeth as the mone. If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght, Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone, An other fayrer unto your owne syght. Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght, Truely your love, though ye make it straunge, I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge. Amoure. Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde, Thoughe that my body be from you aferre, Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde, Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde. Pucell. Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne, For I therof take no possessyon; Your heart is your by substancyall lyne, It is not in my domynacyon. Love where ye list; at every season Your heart is fre, I do not it accept: It is your owne, I have it never kept. Amoure.