And yf I sħal diseryuen hym a right Yf that he had not ben in heuynes Me thought he was, to speke of semelines Of shap of fourme, and also of stature The most passing, that euer yet nature Made in her werkes, and lyke to be a man And ther witħ al as I reherce can Of face and chere the most gracyous To be biloued happy and ewrous Bur as it semed outward by his chere That he complayned for lack of his desire For by hym self as he walked vp and doun I herde hym make a lamentacion And said alas, what thing may this be That now am bonde that whylom was fre And wente at large at myn election Now am I caught vnder subiection For to become a beray homager To god of loue, wher er I cam here Felt in myn herte, nought of loues peyne But now of newe, witħin hur firy cheyne I am embraced so that I may not stryue To serue and loue whyle I am on lyue The godly freshe in the temple yonder I sawe right now, that I had wonder How euer god, for to rekene aƚƚ Might make a thing so celestiaƚƚ So angelike on erthe to appere For witħ the stremes of her eyen clere I am wounded euen to the hert That fro the detħ I may not astert And most I meruayle that so sodeinly I was so yolde to be at hur mercy Witħoute more, I muste her lust obeye Whether that she liste me to lyue or deye And take mekely my sodeyn auenture For sitħ my lif, my detħ, and eke my cure Is in her hand it wil not auaylle To gruoche agayn, for of this bataylle The palme is heris, and plainly the victorye Yf I rebellid honour none ne glorye I might not in ony wyse achyeue Sitħ I am [the]olden, how shold I thenne preue To renne a wey, I wote hit wil not be Thougħ I be loos, at large I may not fle O god of loue how sharp is now thyn arowe How mayst thou now so cruelly and so narowe Witħ oute cause hurte me and wounde And takest none hede my sorowes to founde But liche a birde that fleetħ at her desire Tyl sodeynly witħyn the pantere She is caught thaugħ late she was at large Anewe tempest forcastetħ now my barge Now vp now doun, witħ wynd it is so blowe So am I possed and almost ouerthrowe For dryue in derknes of many sondry wawe Alas whan shal this tempest ouerdrawe To clere the skyes of myn aduersite The lode sterre whan that I ne may see Hit is so hid witħ clowdes that be blake Alas whan wyƚƚ this torment ouerslake I can not wyte, for who is hurt of newe And bledetħ inward til he wex pale of hue And hatħ his wound vnwarly fressħ & grene And hit is not couthe vnto the harmes kene Of myghty cupyde that can so hertes daunte That no man may in his warre hym vaunte To gete a pryce but only by mekenes For ther ne hayletħ stryf ne sturdynes