Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste, With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare; Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst, Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care, That of all joye I am devoyde and bare. I se you ryght often when I am aslepe, And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe. Pucell. So great deceyt amonge men there is, That harde it is to finde one full stable; Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis: Your great deceyte is nothing commendable. In storyes olde it is well provable How many ladyes hath bene right falsely Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly. Amoure. O goodd madame! though that they abused Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte, Yet am I true; let me not be refused: Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte, That ye shall never out of my conceyte. I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke, My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke. Pucell. Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll; Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large; For men say wel, but they thinke full yll. Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge, Yet of your heart I never can have charge; For men do love, as I am right sure, Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure. Amoure. All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly, Some men there be of that condicyon; That them delyte often in novelty, And many also love perfeccyon. I cast all suche noveltes in objection; My love is set upon a perfet grounde, No falshed in me truly shal be founde. Pucell. Ye saye full well, yf ye meane the same; But I in you can have no confydence; I thinke right well that it is no game To love unloved wyth percynge influence. You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty, As two or thre to me doth specify. Amoure. Was never lover without enemies thre, As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce? Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte; What man on live can use suche governaunce To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce Of every persone, but right pryvely Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely? Pucell. Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace, Your love and myne is full ferre asunder: But thoughe that I do your herte so race Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder; Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under, I dare not love but as they accorde, They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde. Amoure. I knowe, madame, that your frendes all Unto me sure wyll be contraryous; But what for that? your selfe in speciall Remembre there is no love so joyous As is your owne to you most precyous; Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?