In yondre shyp, whyche that ye beholde,
Forthe must I sayle wythout longer delaye;
It is full see; my frendes wyll come soone;
Therfore I pray you to go hence your waye,
It draweth fast now towarde the none.
Madame, quod I, your pleasure shal be done.
Wyth wofull herte and great syghes, ofte
I kyssed her lyppes, that were swete and softe.
She unto me nor I unto her colde speke,
And as of that it was no great wondre,