The Love Unfeigned

O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,  
In which that love up groweth with your age,  
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,  
And of your herte up-casteth the visage  
To thilke god that after his image  
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre  
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.  
 
And loveth him, the which that right for love  
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,  
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;  
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,  
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.  
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,  
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?