And specially I gyve to you a charge To fyxe your love, for to be true and stable Upon your lady, and not to fle at large As in sundry wise for to be variable, In corrupt thoughtes vyle and culpable; Prepence nothing unto her dishonesty, For love dishonest hath no certaynte. And sithen that I was cause you be gone Fyrst for to love, I shall a letter make Unto your lady, and send it by my sonne, Lytle Cupyde, that shall it to her take, That she your sorow may detray or slake. Her harded herte it shall well revolve, Wyth pyteous wordes that shall it dissolve. And right anon, as the mater foloweth, She caused Sapyence a letter to wryte; Lo! what her favour unto me avayleth Whan for my selfe she did so well indite, As I shall shew in a short respyte The gentyll fourme and tenour of her letter, To spede my cause for to attayne the better. CAP. XXXI. THE COPY OF THE LETTER THAT VENUS SENT TO LA BELL PUCELL. Right gentyll herte of grene flouring age, The sterre of beute and of famous porte, Consyder well that your lusty courage Age of his cours must at the last transporte: Now trouth of his right dooth our selfe exhorte That you your youth in ydelnes wyll spende, Wythouten pleasure to bryng it to an ende. What was the cause of your creacion, But man to love, the world to multeply? As to sow the sede of generacion, Wyth fervent love so well conveniently, The cause of love engendreth perfytely, Upon an entent of dame Nature, Which you have made so fayre a creature. Than of dame Nature what is the entent But to accomplyshe her fayre sede to sow? In such a place as is convenient, To Gods pleasure, for to increase and grow. The kinde of her ye may not overthrow: Say what ye lyst, ye can nothing deny, But otherwhyle ye thinke full prively What the man is, and what he can do Of chambre werke, as nature can agre, Though by experience ye know nothing therto, Yet oft ye muse, and thinke what it may be. Nature provoketh of her strong degre, You so to as hath bene her olde guyse; Why wyll you than the true love dispyse? In our court there is a byll presented By Graund Amour, whose hert in dures You fast have fettered, not to be absented Frome your person with mortall hevynes: His hert and service, with all gentylnes, He to you oweth, as to be obedient For to fulfyll your swete commaundement. What you avayleth your beaute so fayre, Your lusty youth and your gentill countenaunce, Without that you in your minde will repayre It for to spend in joye and plesaunce? To folow the trace of dame Natures daunce; And thus in doing you shall your servaunt hele, Of his disease and hurte you never a dele.