Of love drunk, and that is routhe.
Ha, holy fader, all is trouthe,
That ye me telle, I am beknowe,
That I with love am fo bethrowe
And al min herte is fo through funke,
That I am veriliche drunke,
And yet I may both speke and go.
But I am overcome fo
And torned fro my felf fo clene,
That oft I wot nought what I mene,
So that excufen I ne may
My herte fro the firfte day,
That I cam to my lady kith.
I was yet fobre never sith,
Where I her fe or fe her nought,
With mufing of min owne thought
Of love, which min herte affaileth,
So drunke I am, that my wit faileth
And all my braine is overtorned
And my manere so mistorned,
That I foryete all that I can
And ftonde like a mased man,
That ofte whan I shulde play
It maketh me drawe out of the way
In folein place by my felve,
As doth a laborer to delve,
Which can no gentilmannes chere,
Or elles as a lewde frere,
Right fo lefe I my contenaunce.
And if it nedes fo betide,
That I in compaigny abide,
Where as I mufte daunce and finge
The hove daunce and carolinge,
Or for to go the newe fote,
I may nought wel heve up my fote,
If that she be nought in the way.
For than is all my merth away,
And waxe anone of thought fo full,
Wherof my limmes ben fo dull,
I may unethes gon the pas.
For thus it is and ever was,
Whan I on fuche thoughtes muse,
The luft and merthe that men use,
Whan I fe nought my lady byme,
All is foryete for the time
So ferforth, that my wittes chaungen
And alle luftes fro me ftraungen,
That they fain alle truely
And fwere, that it am nought I.
For as the man, which ofte drinketh
The wine, that in his ftomack finketh,
Wexth drunke and witles for a throwe,
Right fo
my luft is overthrowe,
And of min owne thought fo mate
I waxe, that to min estate
There is no limme will me ferve,
But as a drunken man I fwerve
And suffre such a paffion,
That men have great compaffion
And everich by him felf merveileth,
What thing it is, that me fo eileth.
Such is the maner of my wo,
Which time that I am her fro,
Till efte ayein that I her se.
But than it were a nicete
To telle you,
For whan I may upon her ftare,
Her womanheed, her gentileffe,
Min hert is full of fuch gladneffe,
That overpaffeth so my wit,
That I wot never where it fit,
But am fo drunken of that fight,
Me thenketh, that for the time I might
Right fterte through the hole wall.
And than I may well, if I fhall,
Both finge and daunce and lepe about
And holde forth the lufty rout.
But netheles it falleth fo
may, but as it were a stake
I ftonde avisement to take
And loke upon her faire face,
That for the while out of the place
For all the world ne might I wende.
Such luft comth than into my minde,
So that withoute mete and drinke
Of lufty thoughtes, which I thinke,
Me thenketh I mighte ftonden ever.
And fo it were to me lever,
Than fuch a fighte for to leve,
If that she wolde yive me leve
To have fo mochel of my will.
And thus thenkend I ftonde ftill
Withoute blenching of min eye,
Right as me thought that I figh
Of paradis the moste joy.
And fo there while I me rejoy,
Unto min herte a great defire,
The which is hoter than the fire,
All fodeinliche upon me renneth,
That all my thought withinne brenneth
And am fo ferforth overcome,
That I not where I am become,
So that among tho hertes ftronge
In stede of drinke I underfonge
A thought so fwete in my corage,
That never piment ne vernage
Was half fo fwete for to drinke.
For as I wolde, than I thinke,
As though I were at min above,
For fo through drunke I am of love,
That all that my fotie demeth
Is foth, as than it to me femeth.
And while I may tho thoughtes kepe,
Me thenketh as though I were aflepe
And that I were in goddes barme.
But whan I fe min owne harme
And that I fodeinliche awake
Out of my thought and hede take,
How that the fothe ftant in dede,
Than is my fikerneffe in drede
And joie torned into wo,
So that the hete is all ago
Of fuch fotie, as I was inne.
And than ayeinward I beginne
To take of love a newe thorst,
Which me greveth alltherworft,
For thanne cometh the blanche fever
With chele and maketh me fo to chever
And fo it coldeth at min herte,
That wonder is, how I afterte
In fuche a point that I ne deie.
For certes there was never keie
Ne frofen is upon the walle
More inly cold, than I am alle.
And thus fuffre I the hote chele,
Which paffeth other peines fele,
In colde I brenne and frese in hete
And than I drinke a bitter fwete
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