For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;

I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

20

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed

So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne

To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.