Amoure

With thought of yll my mynde was never myxte, To you, madame, but alway clene and pure, Bothe daye and nyght upon you hole perfyxte. But I my mynde yet durst nothynge discure, How for your sake I dyd suche wo endure, Tyll now this houre with dredfull hert so faynt To you, swete herte, I have made my complaynt.