Pucell

So, me thynke, it doth right well appere By your coloure that love hath done you wo; Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere; Hath love suche myght for to aray you so In so short a space? I marvayle moche also That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne, Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne?