Their tongues cease, but gyve thre wordes for one,
Fy on them all! I wyll of them have none:
Who loveth any for to make hym sadde,
I wene that he become worse than madde.
They are not stedfast nothyng in their mynde,
But alway tornyng lyke a blaste of wynde.
For let a man love them never so wele,
They will hym love agayne never a dele.
For though a man all his lyfe certayne
Unto her sue to have release of payne,