Nevere yit

It hath and schal ben everemor That love is maister wher he wile.

For loves lawe is out of reule.

Bot for men sein, and soth it is, That who that al of wisdom writ It dulleth ofte a mannes wit To him that schal it aldai rede, For thilke cause, if that ye rede, I wolde go the middel weie

But in proverbe I have herde say, That who that wel his werk beginneth, The rather a good end he winneth.

For whan men wene best to have achieved, Ful ofte it is al newe to beginne: The werre hath no thing siker, thogh he winne.

O Venus, queene of lovës cure, Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannës hele, Behold my cause and my querele, And yif me som part of thi grace.