That was so fayr, so fresh, so free,
485
So good, that men may wel [y]-see
Of al goodnesse she had no mete!'—
Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,
His sorowful herte gan faste faynte,
And his spirites wexen dede;
490
The blood was fled, for pure drede,
Doun to his herte, to make him warm—