A Balade. Ma dame, ye ben of al beaute shryne As fer as cercled is the mapamonde; For as the cristall glorious ye shyne, And lyke ruby ben your chekys rounde. Therwyth ye ben so mery and so iocunde That at a reuell whan that I se you dance, It is an oynement vnto my wounde, Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance. For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde; Your semy voys that ye so small out twyne Makyth my thoght in ioy and blys habounde. So curtaysly I go, wyth loue bounde, That to my self I sey, in my penaunce, Suffyseth me to loue you, Rosemounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in loue am walwed and iwounde; For whych ful ofte I of my self deuyne That I am trew Tristam the secunde. My loue may not refreyde nor affounde; I brenne ay in an amorouse plesaunce. Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.
This poem is in the public domain.