For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill;
And though my teares will naught avail,
Most dearely I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere colde bee,
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye he loved mee.
When thus I sawe he loved me well,
I grew so proude his paine to see,