Aferde he was of the true love to breke, For sayng nay whan he therof should speke; Tyll of constraynt of wofull hevynes, For to have remedy of his sore sekenes, Whan he her spyed ryght secrete alone, Unto her he wente and made all his mone. Alas! he sayd, the cause of my wo, Myne only lady and maystres also, Whose goodly beaute hath my harte enrached, With fervent love and fyry lemes entached, Wherfore take pyte of the paynfull sorowe Of me your servaunt both even and morowe. She stode ryght styll, and hearde what he sayde: Alas! quod she, be ye no more dismayed, For I am content to fulfill your will In every maner, be it good or ill, Of this condicion; that ye shall release Me first of my wo and great distresse; For I my selfe have thought many a daye To you to speake, but for feare of a nay I durst never of the matter meve Unto your person, lest it should you greve. Nay, nay, quod he, with all my whole entente, I shall obeye to your commaundement. Well then, quod she, I shall you nowe tell Howe the case standeth, truely, every dele: For you knowe well that some women do long After nyce thynges, be it ryght or wrong. Ryght so must I upon your backe nowe ryde, In your mouthe also a brydle you to guyde. And so a brydle she put in his mouthe, Upon his backe she rode both north and south, About a chamber as some clarkes wene, Of many persones it was openly sene! Lo! what is love, that can so sore blynde A philosopher to bryng hym out of kynde? For love doth passe any maner of thyng, It is harde and privy in workyng. So on the grounde Aristotle crept, And in his teeth she long the brydle kept, Till she therof had inough her fyll; And yet for this he never had his wyll. She dyd nothing but for to mocke and scorne This true lover whiche was for love forlorne: But when he knewe the poynt of the case, The fyry angre dyde hys herte enbrace, That he him selfe dyd anone well knowe, His angre dyd his love so overthrowe, And ryght anone, as some poets wryte, He the gret mockage dyd her well acquyte. Dyd not a woman the famouse Vyrgyle By her greate fraude full craftely begyle? For on a day, for hys owne dysporte, To the court of Rome he gan to resorte, Amonge the ladyes the tyme for to passe; Tyl at the last, lyke Phebus in the glasse, So dyd a lady wyth her beaute clere Shyne throughe his hert wyth suche love so dere, That of great force he must nedes obey, She of his mynde bare bothe the locke and the kay: So was his hart set upon a fyre Wyth fervent love to attayne hys desyre. She had him caught in suche a wyly snare, Great was his payne and muche more his care, To fynde a tyme whan it should be meved To her of love and he nothynge repreved. Thus every day, by ymagynacyon, In his mynde was suche perturbacyon, And at the last he had found a tyme Hym thought to speke, and unto hym no cryme.