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Avising the
bright beams of these fair eyes
Where he is that
mine oft moisteth and washeth,
The wearied mind
straight from the heart departeth
For to rest in his
worldly paradise
And find the sweet bitter under this
guise.
What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth
Whereby with himself on love he plaineth
That
spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice.
Thus is it
in such extremity brought,
In frozen thought, now and
now it standeth in flame.
Twixt misery and wealth,
twixt earnest and game,
But few glad, and many
diverse thought
With sore repentance of his
hardiness.
Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.
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