[The sore spark of peyne doth me spille;] 15
This Love hath [eek] me set in swich a place
That my desyr [he] never wol fulfille;
For neither pitee, mercy, neither grace
Can I nat finde; and [fro] my sorwful herte,
For to be deed, I can hit nat arace. 20
The more I love, the more she doth me smerte;
Through which I see, with-oute remedye,
That from the deeth I may no wyse asterte;
[For this day in hir servise shal I dye].