Ballate
Me cry on Death for ease,
While Death doth point me on toward all mischance.
And I can cry for Grief so heavily
As hath man never,
For Grief drags to my heart a heart so sore
With wandering speech of her, who cruelly
Outwearieth me ever….
O Mistress, spoiler of my valour’s store!
Accursed by the hour when Amor
Was born in such a wise
That my life in his eyes
Grew matter of pleasure and acceptable!
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