Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst,
Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care,
That of all joye I am devoyde and bare.
I se you ryght often when I am aslepe,
And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.
Pucell.
So great deceyt amonge men there is,
That harde it is to finde one full stable;
Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis:
Your great deceyte is nothing commendable.