Amoure

My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why; Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete; In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete, Your beaute my herte so surely assayde, That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.