1810
For ought I couthe pulle or winde.
So sore it stikid whan I was hit,
That by no craft I might it flit;
But anguissous and ful of thought,
I felte such wo, my wounde ay wrought,
1815
That somoned me alway to go
Toward the rose, that plesed me so;
But I ne durste in no manere,