I shall not chaunge you for none other new;
You are my lady, you are my masteres,
Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes.
Exyle him never from your hert so dere,
Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.
Pucell.
The minde of men chaungeth as the mone.
If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght,
Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone,
An other fayrer unto your owne syght.