And at the last he had found a tyme
Hym thought to speke, and unto hym no cryme.
Mercy! lady, nowe, in all humble wyse,
To her he sayd: for yf ye me dyspyse
So hath your beaute my true hart aryed,
It is no mervayle thoughe I be afrayde
To you to speake it, that you deny
My purpose truely I am marde utterly.
So do I love now wyth all my heart entere,
Wyth inwarde care I by your beauty dere,