For she is so ferre out of thy presence.
A, a! truly in the tyme so past,
Myne erande was the often for to se;
Now for to entre I may be agast,
When thou art hens, the sterre of beaute,
For all my delyte was to beholde the!
A! toure, toure! all my joye is gone,
In the to entre comfort is there none!
So then inwardly my selfe bewaylynge,
In the toure I went, into the habytacle