‘O thou Cupide, o thou Venus,
Fortuned be whos ordinaunce
Of love is every mannes chaunce,[1430] 3560
Ye knowen al min hole herte,
That I ne mai your hond asterte;
On you is evere that I crie,
And yit you deigneth noght to plie,
Ne toward me youre Ere encline.
Thus for I se no medicine
To make an ende of mi querele,