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To whom shal I than pleyne of my distresse?
Who may me helpe? Who may my harm redresse?
Shal I compleyne unto my lady fre?
Nay, certes, for she hath such hevynesse,
For fere and eke for wo that, as I gesse,
In lytil tyme hit wol her bane be.
But were she sauf, hit were no fors of me.
Alas, that ever lovers mote endure
For love so many a perilous aventure!
For thogh so be that lovers be as trewe
As any metal that is forged newe,
In many a cas hem tydeth ofte sorowe.
Somtyme her lady wil not on hem rewe;
Somtyme yf that jelosie hyt knewe,
They myghten lyghtly leye her hed to borowe;
Somtyme envyous folk with tunges horowe
Depraven hem; alas, whom may they plese?
But he be fals, no lover hath non ese.
But what availeth such a long sermoun
Of aventures of love up and doun?
I wol returne and speken of my peyne.
The poynt is this of my distruccioun:
My righte lady, my savacyoun,
Is in affray, and not to whom to pleyne.
O herte swete, O lady sovereyne!
For your disese wel oughte I swowne and swelte,
Though I non other harm ne drede felte.