One must you love, it can not be denied, For harde it is to voyde you of the chaunce Than to love him best that you have so arayed Wyth fyry chaynes fettered in penaunce; For he is redy without doubtaunce In every thing for to fulfyll your wyll, And as ye lyst ye may him save or spyll. Alas! what payne and mortall wo Were it to you and you were in lyke cace, Wyth him dismayde which you have rayed so; Wold you not than thinke it a longe space In his swete herte to have a dwellyng place? Than in your minde you may revolve that he Moost longe do thinke that joyfull day to se. Is not he yonge, both wyse and lusty, And eke descended of the gentyll lyne? What wyll you have more of him truely, Than you to serve as true love wyll inclyne? But, as I thinke, you do now determine To fyxe your minde for worldly treasure, Though in your youth ye lese your pleasure. Alas! remember first your beaute, Your youth, your courage, and your tender herte; What payne hereafter it may to you be Whan you lacke that which is true lovers deserte; I tell you this your selfe to converte, For lytle know ye of this payne ywys, To lyve with him in whome no pleasure is. Where that is love, there can be no lacke; Fye on that love for the land or substaunce, For it must nedes right soone abacke Whan that youth hath no joye nor pleasaunce In the party with natures suffisaunce; Than wyll you, for the sinne of averiche, Unto your youth do such a prejudice? Thus, sithen Nature hath you well indued With so much beaute; and dame Grace also Your vertuous maner hath so well renued; Exyle Disdayne and let her from you go, And also Straungenes, and to love the fo; And let no covetous your true herte subdue, But that in joye you may your youth ensue. For of I love the goddes dame Venus, Right well to know that in the world is none That unto you shall be more joyous Than Graund Amour, that loveth you alone; Sith he so did, it is many dayes agone. Who ever saw a fayre yong hart so harde, Which for her sake wolde se her true love mard? And so shall he, without ye take good hede, If it so be ye be cause of the same, For love with deth wyll ye reward his mede? And if ye do ye be to muche to blame. To love unloved ye know it is no game: Wherfore, me thinke, ye can do no lesse But with your love his paynes to redres. If ye do not, this may be his songe; Wo worth the time that ever he you met; Wo worth your hert so doing him wrong; Wo worth the houre that his true herte was set; Wo worth dysdayne that wold his purpose let; Wo worth the flour that can do no bote; Wo worth you that perst him at the route.