Love had me wounded so sore inwardly,
What was to do I knewe not the best.
Replete wyth sorowe and devoyde of rest,
Sythen the tyme that she my hert soo wounded,
My joy and pryde she hath full lowe confounded.
CAP. XXVII.
HOWE MINERVE LEDDE GRAUNDE AMOURE TO KYNG MELYZYUS, WHICHE MADE HYM KNYGHT
And so nowe, for to attayne her grace,
As thou doost knowe become adventurous,
Besechinge the in thys peryllous case,
O Mars! me succoure in tyme tempestyous,