Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew

But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang, that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.

And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, That built his seat within my captive breast; Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.

Brittle beauty, that Nature made so frail, Whereof the gift is small, and short the season; Flowering to-day, to-morrow apt to fail; Tickle treasure, abhorred of reason: Dangerous to deal with, vain, of none avail; Costly in keeping, past …

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale: The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make hath told her tale; Summer is come, for every spray now springs.

Then think I thus: "Sith such repair, So long time war of valiant men, Was all to win a lady fair, Shall I not learn to suffer then? And think my life well spent to be, Serving a worthier wight than she?"