And pluk his wing, and eke him, in his game,
And tender herte of that hath made her dy:
705
Eke she wold wepe, and morn right pitously
To seen a lover suffre gret destresse.
In all the court nas non that, as I gesse,
That coude a lover †half so well availe,
Ne of his wo the torment or the rage
710
†Aslaken, for he was sure, withouten faile,