Allas! how dorste I thenken that folye?
775
May I nought wel in other folk aspye
Hir dredful Ioye, hir constreynt, and hir peyne?
Ther loveth noon, that she nath [why] to pleyne.
112. For love is yet the moste stormy lyf,
Right of him-self, that ever was bigonne;
780
For ever som mistrust, or nyce stryf,
Ther is in love, som cloud is over the sonne: