Tyl that I spyed her above, in a vaute,
Whiche to my hert did make so sore assaute,
Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce,
The stroke of love I coulde nothynge resyste:
And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce,
To her I wente, or that her person wyste;
Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst;
By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte,
And dyd my selfe wyth her sone acquaynt.
The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde