And where that wysdome ruleth hardynes, Hardynes than is ever invincyble, There may nothinge it vanquishe or oppres; For prudence is so well intellygyble, To her there is nothing impossible; Her grounded werke is made so perfytely, That it must nedes resyst the contrary. To wofull creatures she is goodly leche, Wyth her good syster called Pacyence, To the toure of joye she doth them tell weche, In the way of hope wythout resystence; Who to her lyst to applye hys dylygence, She wyll hym brynge to worshyppe shortly That he shall well resyst the contrary. Ryght so let wysdome your sorowe surrendre, And hye you fast unto dame Geometry, And let no thought in your herte engendre, But after thys speke to Astronomye; And so frome thence to the toure of Chyvalry, Wher of the worthy kynge Melyzyus You shall be made soone knyght adventurous. And fare you well, for I must frome you go, To other lovers whyche are in dyspayre, As I dyd you, to confort them also: It is great nede that I to them repayre, Habundant teres theyr hertes do refleyre. Farewell! quod I, my good frende so true, I wolde wyth me ye might alwaye ensue! Then agayne I went to the toure melodyous Of good dame Musyke, my leve for to take; And pryvely wyth these wordes dolorous I sayd: O toure! thou mayst well aslake Suche melody now in the more to make The gemme is gone of all famous porte, That was chefe cause of the great comforte. Whylome thou was the fayre toure of lyght, But now thou arte replete with darkenes; She is now gone that shone in the so bryght; Thou was some time the toure of gladnes, Now mayst thou be the toure of hevynes, For the chefe is gone of all thy melody, Whose beauty clere made moost swete armony. The fayre carbuncle, so ful of clerenes, That in thee truely dyd moost purely shyne, The perle of pyte replete with swetenes, The gentyll gyllofer, the goodly columbyne, The redolente plant of the dulcet vyne, The dede aromatyke may no more ensence, For she is so ferre out of thy presence. A, a! truly in the tyme so past, Myne erande was the often for to se; Now for to entre I may be agast, When thou art hens, the sterre of beaute, For all my delyte was to beholde the! A! toure, toure! all my joye is gone, In the to entre comfort is there none! So then inwardly my selfe bewaylynge, In the toure I went, into the habytacle Of dame Musyke, where she was syngynge The ballades swete in her fayre tabernacle. Alas! thought I, this is no spectacle To fede myn eyne, whiche ar now all blynde; She is not here that I was wonte to fynde. Than of dame Musyke, with all lowlines I dyde take my leve, withouten itarenge. She thanked me with all here mekenes; And all alone fourth I went musynge. A, a! quod I, my love and lykinge Is nowe ferre hence, on whome my hole delyght Dayly was sette, upon her to have sight.