To ben as trewe as euer was antonyus To cleopatre whyle hym lastetħ bretħ Or vnto thesbe yong Piramus That was faithful found, til them deptid deth Right so shal I til Antropos me sletħ For whele or woo her faithful man be found Vnto my last, like as my hert is bound To loue as wel as did Achilles Vnto his laste the fair Polixene Or as the grete famous Hercules For dyanyre that felte the shott kene Right so shal I saye right as I mene Whyle that I lyue, her botħ drede and serue For lack of mercy thougħ she do me sterue Now lady venus to whom nothing vnknowe Is in the world hid, ne nought may be For ther nys thing nether hye ne lowe May be conceyled from your pryuete Fro whom my menyng is not now secret But wite fully that myn entent is true And liche my trouthe now on my peyne rue For more of grace than of presumpcion I axe mercy, and no thing of dute Of lowly humbles, witħ oute offencion That ye enclyne of your benygnyte Your audience vnto my humylyte To graunte me that to you I clepe & calle Sum day relees yet of my peynes alle And sitħ ye haue the guerdon and the mede Of alle louers pleinly in your honde Now of grace and pyte take ye hede Of my distrees, that am vnder your bonde So lowly bound, as ye wel vnderstonde In that place where I toke first my wounde Of pyte suffre ye my heltħ may be founde That liche as she me hurte witħ a sight Right so with helth late me hur sustene And as the stremes of her eyen bright Whylom my hert witħ woundes sharp & kene Thurgħ persed haue and yet be fresh & grene So as she me hurte, lete her me socoure Or ellis certayn I may not long endure For lack of speche I can say you no more I haue mater but I can not pleyne My witte is duƚƚ to tel al my sore A mouth I haue, And yet for al my peyn For want of wordes I may not now atteyn To tel half, that dotħ my hert greue Mercy abydyng, til she me list releue But this theffect of my mater fynal Witħ detħ or mercy relees for to fynde For hert body thought lyf lust and al Witħ al my reson and al my ful mynde And fyue wittes of on assent I bynde To her seruyse witħ oute ony stryf And make her pryncesse of my detħ or lyf And now I pray of routħ and eke pyte O goodly planet, O lady venus bright That ye your sone of his deyte Cupide I mene that witħ his dredful myght And witħ his brond that is so clere of light Her herte so to fyre and to marke As ye me whylem brent witħ a sparke That euenlicħ and with the same fyre She may be hit, as I now brenne and melte So that her herte be flamed witħ desire That she may knowe by feruence hou I swelte For of pyte plainly yf she felte The self hete that doth myn hert enbrace I hope of routħ she wiƚƚ do me grace And ther witħ al bemis as me thought Towardes this man ful benyngely Gan cast her eye, like as that she rought Of his disease, and said ful goodly Sith it is so, that thou so humbly Witħ out gruachyng our hestes liste obeye Toward thyn help I wil anon pourueye