Pucell. Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe, To wed for fere, as them to obey; Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe, For I my selfe do here the locke and kaye Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye. Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do I stand untyed, there is no joye therto. Amoure. O swete lady! the good perfyte sterre Of my true herte, take ye now pyte; Thynke on my payne whiche am tofore you here, Wyth your swete eyes beholde you and se, How thought and wo, by great extremyte, Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne: It was not so whan I to love began. Pucell. So, me thynke, it doth right well appere By your coloure that love hath done you wo; Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere; Hath love suche myght for to aray you so In so short a space? I marvayle moche also That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne, Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne? Amoure. My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why; Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete; In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete, Your beaute my herte so surely assayde, That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde. CAP. XIX. HOW LA BELL PUCELL GRAUNTED GRAUND AMOURE LOVE, AND OF HER DISPITEOUS DEPARTAGE. Your wo and payne, and all your languishynge Continually ye shall not spende in vayne, Sythen I am cause of your great mornynge, Nothynge exyle you shall I by dysdayne; Youre hert and myne shall never parte in twayne: Though at the fyrste I wolde not condescende, It was for fere ye dyde some yll entende. Amoure. With thought of yll my mynde was never myxte, To you, madame, but alway clene and pure, Bothe daye and nyght upon you hole perfyxte. But I my mynde yet durst nothynge discure, How for your sake I dyd suche wo endure, Tyll now this houre with dredfull hert so faynt To you, swete herte, I have made my complaynt. Pucell. I demed ofte you loved me before, By your demenour I dyde it aspye, And in my mynde I juged evermore That at the laste ye wolde full secretly Tell me your mynde of love right gentilly; As ye have done, so my mercy to crave, In all worshyppe you shal my true love have. Amoure. O Lorde God than! how joyfull was I! She loked on me wyth lovely countenaunce; I kyst her ones or twise right swetely; Her depured vysage, replete with pleasaunce, Rejoyced my heart with amerous purveaunce. O lady clere! that perste me at the rote, O floure of comforte, all my hele and bote!