Ryght so must I upon your backe nowe ryde,
In your mouthe also a brydle you to guyde.
And so a brydle she put in his mouthe,
Upon his backe she rode both north and south,
About a chamber as some clarkes wene,
Of many persones it was openly sene!
Lo! what is love, that can so sore blynde
A philosopher to bryng hym out of kynde?
For love doth passe any maner of thyng,
It is harde and privy in workyng.