The Temple of Glass

by John Lydgate

And ouer this wonder secrete and true
A wel of fredome and right bounteous
And euer encrecyng in vertu new & newe
Of speche goodly, and wonder gracyous
Deuoyd of pryde, to poure not despytous
And yf that I shortly shal not feyne
Saue vpon mercy I no thing compleyne

What wonder thenne, thougħ I be witħ drede
Inly supprised for to axen grace
Of her that is quene of womanhede
For wel I wote in so higħ a place
Hit wil not be, therfore I ouer pace
And take lowly what wo I endure
Til she of pyte me take to her cure

But one auowe plainly here I make
That whethir so be, she do me lyue or deye
I wil not gruoche, but humbly hit take
And thanke god and wilfully obeye
For by my troutħ my hert shal neuer reneye
For lyf ne detħ mercy ne daunger
Of wil and thought to be at her desire

To ben as trewe as euer was antonyus
To cleopatre whyle hym lastetħ bretħ
Or vnto thesbe yong Piramus
That was faithful found, til them deptid deth
Right so shal I til Antropos me sletħ
For whele or woo her faithful man be found
Vnto my last, like as my hert is bound

To loue as wel as did Achilles
Vnto his laste the fair Polixene
Or as the grete famous Hercules
For dyanyre that felte the shott kene
Right so shal I saye right as I mene
Whyle that I lyue, her botħ drede and serue
For lack of mercy thougħ she do me sterue

Now lady venus to whom nothing vnknowe
Is in the world hid, ne nought may be
For ther nys thing nether hye ne lowe
May be conceyled from your pryuete
Fro whom my menyng is not now secret
But wite fully that myn entent is true
And liche my trouthe now on my peyne rue

For more of grace than of presumpcion
I axe mercy, and no thing of dute
Of lowly humbles, witħ oute offencion
That ye enclyne of your benygnyte
Your audience vnto my humylyte
To graunte me that to you I clepe & calle
Sum day relees yet of my peynes alle

And sitħ ye haue the guerdon and the mede
Of alle louers pleinly in your honde
Now of grace and pyte take ye hede
Of my distrees, that am vnder your bonde
So lowly bound, as ye wel vnderstonde
In that place where I toke first my wounde
Of pyte suffre ye my heltħ may be founde

That liche as she me hurte witħ a sight
Right so with helth late me hur sustene
And as the stremes of her eyen bright
Whylom my hert witħ woundes sharp & kene
Thurgħ persed haue and yet be fresh & grene
So as she me hurte, lete her me socoure
Or ellis certayn I may not long endure

For lack of speche I can say you no more
I haue mater but I can not pleyne
My witte is duƚƚ to tel al my sore
A mouth I haue, And yet for al my peyn
For want of wordes I may not now atteyn
To tel half, that dotħ my hert greue
Mercy abydyng, til she me list releue