Ma dame, ye ben of al beaute shryneAs fer as cercled is the mapamonde;For as the cristall glorious ye shyne,And lyke ruby ben your chekys rounde.Therwyth ye ben so mery and so iocundeThat at a reuell whan that I se you dance,It is an oynement vnto my wounde,Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;Your semy voys that ye so small out twyneMakyth my thoght in ioy and blys habounde.So curtaysly I go, wyth loue bounde,That to my self I sey, in my penaunce,Suffyseth me to loue you, Rosemounde,Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyneAs I in loue am walwed and iwounde;For whych ful ofte I of my self deuyneThat I am trew Tristam the secunde.My loue may not refreyde nor affounde;I brenne ay in an amorouse plesaunce.Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.
Tregentil --//-- Chaucer
