Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll,
I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake
To gyve me counseyle what were best to take.
Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke,
That yet your heart will nothynge be eased,
But evermore be feble and sycke,
Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed;
Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed.
I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say.
Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away,