Constrayned were a joyful thing to wryte,
Myn pen coud never have knowlege what it ment;
To speke therof my tonge hath no delyte.
And with my mouth if I laugh moche or lyte,
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Myn eyen shold make a countenaunce untrewe;
My hert also wold have therof despyte,
The weping teres have so large issewe.
These seke lovers, I leve that to hem longes,
Which lede their lyf in hope of alegeaunce,