XX
Great is the joy that no tongue can express!
Fair babe new born, how much dost thou delight me!
But what, is mine so great? Yea, no whit less!
So great that of all woes it doth acquite me.
It's fair Fidessa that this comfort bringeth,
Who sorry for the wrongs by her procured,
Delightful tunes of love, of true love singeth,
Wherewith her too chaste thoughts were ne'er inured.
She loves, she saith, but with a love not blind.
Her love is counsel that I should not love,
But upon virtues fix a stayèd mind.
But what! This new-coined love, love doth reprove?
If this be love of which you make such store,
Sweet, love me less, that you may love me more!
