In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face,
And that a cloud is put with wind to flighte
Which [over-sprat] the sonne as for a space,
A cloudy thought gan thorugh hir soule pace,
That over-spradde hir brighte thoughtes alle,
770
So that for fere almost she gan to falle.
111. That thought was this, 'allas! sin I am free,
Sholde I now love, and putte in Iupartye
My sikernesse, and thrallen libertee?