Wyth a lyttle pytte in her well-favored chynne; Her necke longe as whyte as ony lylly, With vaynes blew in which the blode ran inne; Her paypes round and therto right prety; Her armes sclender and of goodly body; Her fingers small and therto right longe, White as the milke, with blew vaynes among. Her fete proper, she gartered well her hose, I never saw so swete a creature; Nothing she lacketh as I do suppose, That is longing to fayre dame Nature; Yet more over her countenaunce so pure, So swete, so lovely, wold my hert inspyre, Wyth fervent love to attayne his desyre. But what for her maners passeth all, She is both gentyll, good, and vertuous; Alas! what fortune did me to her call Without that she be to me piteous? With her so fettered in paynes dolorous, Alas! shall pite be from her exyled, Which all vertues hath so undefiled? Thus in my mynde whan I had engraved Her goodly countenaunce and fayre figure, It was no wonder that I was amased, My herte and minde she had so tane in cure. Nothing of love I durst to her discure; Yet for bicause I was in her presence, I toke acquaintaunce of her excellence. My herte was drenched in great sorow depe, Though outwardly my countenaunce was lyght; The inward wo into my hert did crepe, To hide my payne it was great force and myght. Thus her swete beaute with a soden sight My hert hath wounded, which much nedes obey Unto such a sorow, alas, welawaye! For she is gone, and departed right ferre, In her countre where she doth abyde; She is now gone, the fayre shining sterre! O lady Venus! I pray the provide That I may after at the morow tide, And by the way, with hert rigorious, To subdue mine enemies contrarious. And yet thy grace moost humbly I pray, To send thy sonne lytle Cupide before, With loving letters as fast as thou may, That she may know somwhat of my paynes sore, Which for her sake I suffer evermore. Now, lady Venus, with my hole intent Of lyfe or death I byde the judgement. Well than, sayd Venus, I have perseveraunce That you know somwhat of mighty power Which to my court sue for my quayntaunce, To have release of your great paynes sower. Abyde a whyle, ye must tary the hower; The time renneth toward right fast: Joy cometh after whan the sorow is past. Alas! I sayd, who is fettered in chaynes He thinketh long after delyveracion Of his great wo and eke mortall paynes; For who abideth paynfull penaunce Thinketh a short whyle a longe contynuaunce; Who may not speke with her he loveth best, It is no wonder though he take no rest. Abyde, quod she; you must a whyle yet tary, Though to have comfort ye right long do thinke: I shall provide for you a lectuary, Which after sorow into your herte shall sinke. Though you be brought now unto dethes drynke, Yet drede exile and lyve in hope and trust, For at the last you shall attayne your lust.