My love for thee as wottest well is habit, and my lowe
Is nature; to all others false is all the love I tender:
Now were my heart but like to thine I never would say No;
Only my wasted form is like thy waist so gracious-slender:
Out on him who in Beauty's robe for moon-like charms hath fame,
And who is claimed by mouth of men as marvel of his tribe!
"Of man what manner may he be" (ask they who flyte and blame)
"For whom thy heart is so distressed?" I only cry "Describe!"
Oh stone-entempered heart of him! learn of his yielding grace
And bending form to show me grace and yielding to consent.