With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete.
Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde
That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.
Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre,
Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce:
I fere to sore I shal disdayned be,
The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce.
Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce:
I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches,
To wynne the favour of her noblenes.