Whiche loveth you so with fervent desyre?
And you your selfe may his sorowe minishe,
That with your beauty set his harte a fyre.
Your swete lokes did his harte enspire,
That of fyne force he must to you obeye,
To live or dye there is no more to saye.
Alas! quod Peace, wyll ye let him endure
In mortal payne withouten remedy?
Sithen his harte you have so tane in cure,
Your hasty dome loke that ye modefy.