Pucell

Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace, Your love and myne is full ferre asunder: But thoughe that I do your herte so race Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder; Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under, I dare not love but as they accorde, They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.