Balade to Rosemounde

Madame, ye ben of al beautè shryne As fer as cercled is the mappemounde; For as the cristal glorious ye shyne, And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde. Therwith ye ben so mery and so iocounde, That at a revel whan that I see you daunce, It is an oynement unto my wounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde; Your seemly voys that ye so smal out-twyne Maketh my thoght in Ioye and blis habounde. So curteisly I go, with lovë bounde, That to my-self I sey, in my penaunce, Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in love am walwed and y-wounde; For which ful ofte I of my-self divyne That I am trewe Tristan the secounde. My love may not refreyd be nor afounde; I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce. Do what you list, I wil your thral be founde, Thoghe ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Tregentil. Chaucer.