Bot forto conseile of mi peines,
I can no bote do therto;
And thus withouten hope I go,
So that mi wittes ben empeired,
And I, as who seith, am despeired
To winne love of thilke swete,
Withoute whom, I you behiete, 3470
Min herte, that is so bestad,
Riht inly nevere mai be glad.
For be my trouthe I schal noght lie,