To my Soverain Lady

I have non English convenient and digne Myn hertes hele, lady, thee with t'honoure, Ivorie clene; therfore I wol resigne In-to thyn hand, til thou list socoure To help my making bothe florisshe and floure; Than shulde I shewe, in love how I brende, In songes making, thy name to commende.

For if I coude before thyn excellence Singen in love, I wolde, what I fele, And ever standen, lady, in thy presence, To shewe in open how I love you wele; And sith, although your herte be mad of stele, To you, withoute any disseveraunce, J'ay en vous toute ma fiaunce.

Wher might I love ever better besette Than in this lilie, lyking to beholde? The lace of love, the bond so wel thou knette, That I may see thee or myn herte colde, And or I passe out of my dayes olde, Tofore singing evermore utterly— 'Your eyën two wol slee me sodainly.'

For love I langour, blissed be such seknesse, Sith it is for you, my hertely suffisaunce; I can not elles saye, in my distresse, So fair oon hath myn herte in governaunce; And after that I †ginne on esperaunce With feble entune, though it thyn herte perce, Yet for thy sake this lettre I do reherce.

God wot, on musike I can not, but I gesse, (Alas! why so?) that I might say or singe, So love I you, myn own soverain maistresse, And ever shal, withouten départinge. Mirrour of beautè, for you out shuld I ringe, In rémembraunce eke of your eyen clere, Thus fer from you, my soverain lady dere!

So wolde god your love wold me slo, Sith, for your sake, I singe day by day; Herte, why nilt thou [never] breke a-two, Sith with my lady dwellen I ne may? Thus many a roundel and many a virelay In fresshe Englisshe, whan I me layser finde, I do recorde, on you to have minde!

Now, lady myn! sith I you love and drede, And you unchaunged finde, in o degree, Whos grace ne may flye fro your womanhede, Disdayneth not for to remembre on me! Myn herte bledeth, for I may nat you see; And sith ye wot my mening désirous, Pleurez pur moi, si vous plaist amorous!

What marveyle is, though I in payne be? I am departed from you, my soveraine; Fortune, alas! dont vient la destenee, That in no wyse I can ne may attayne To see the beautè of your eyën twayne. Wherfore I say, for tristesse doth me grame, Tant me fait mal departir de ma dame!

Why nere my wisshing brought to suche esploit That I might say, for joye of your presence, Ore a man cuer ce quil veuilloit, Ore a man cuer the highest excellence That ever had wight;' and sith myn advertence Is in you, reweth on my paynes smerte, I am so sore wounded to the herte.

To live wel mery, two lovers were y-fere, So may I say withouten any blame; If any man [per cas] to wilde were, I coude him [sonë] teche to be tame; Let him go love, and see wher it be game! For I am brydled unto sobernesse For her, that is of women cheef princesse.

But ever, whan thought shulde my herte embrace, Than unto me is beste remedye, Whan I loke on your goodly fresshe face; So mery a mirrour coude I never espye; And, if I coude, I wolde it magnifye. For never non was [here] so faire y-founde, To reken hem al, and also Rosamounde.

And fynally, with mouthe and wil present Of double eye, withoute repentaunce, Myn herte I yeve you, lady, in this entent, That ye shal hoolly therof have governaunce; Taking my leve with hertes obeysaunce, Salve, regina! singing laste of al, To be our helpe, whan we to thee cal!

Al our lovë is but ydelnesse Save your aloon; who might therto attayne? Who-so wol have a name of gentillesse, I counsayle him in love that he not fayne. Thou swete lady! refut in every payne, Whos [pitous] mercy most to me avayleth To gye by grace, whan that fortune fayleth.

Nought may be told, withouten any fable, Your high renome, your womanly beautè; Your governaunce, to al worship able, Putteth every herte in ese in his degree. O violet, O flour desiree, Sith I am for you so amorous, Estreynez moy, [lady,] de cuer joyous!

With fervent herte my brest hath broste on fyre; L'ardant espoir que mon cuer poynt, est mort, D'avoir l'amour de celle que je desyre, I mene you, swete, most plesaunt of port, Et je sai bien que ceo n'est pas mon tort That for you singe, so as I may, for mone For your departing; alone I live, alone.

Though I mighte, I wolde non other chese; In your servyce, I wolde be founden sad; Therfore I love no labour that ye lese, Whan, in longing, sorest ye be stad; Loke up, ye lovers [alle], and be right glad Ayeines sëynt Valentynes day, For I have chose that never forsake I may!

Explicit.