At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll;
Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl?
Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede,
That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede.
A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone,
For I of love dare not to you speke,
For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone;
A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke.
Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke
Into suche trouble, misery, and thought: