What one of chere? How stowt of harte in arms?
Truelie I think, ne vaine ys my beliefe,
Of goddishe race some of springe should he seeme.
Cowardie noteth harts swarved owt of kinde
He driven, lord, with how hard destinie!
What battells eke atchieved did he tell!
And but my minde was fixt immovablie
Never with wight in wedlocke for to joine,
Sithe my first love me lefte by deth disseverid,
Yf bridal bowndes and bed me lothed not,