The fairest or the freschest zoung floure
That ever I sawe, methot before that houre,
For quhick sodayne abate, anon astert,
The blude of all my bodie to my hert.
“And though I stode abaiset tho a lyte,
No wonder was; for quhy? my wittes all
Were so ouercome wt pleasaunce and delyte,
Only through letting of myn eyen fall,
That sudaynly my hert became hir thrall
For ever, of free wyll; for of menace