Ere he might hope of help to win
The secret bliss hid far within.
Few ’scape from out that pleasaunce whole,
Few gain the inmost golden goal;
Full many wander there forlorn,
Or come out thence sore wounded, torn,
To weep their wasted lives forespent.
Thither by Love my soul was bent:
Soon in the green maze sweet and still,
I heard the brown and blackbird trill,