There is no ease but in beholding thee
Who art afar! Whence I of tears am fain
Mourning the happy days that used to be:
Yet unto none but thee may I complain.
Doubt not of this, true love whom I adore,
Thine image in my soul is ever clear:
I think but on the blessedness of yore
And on thy beauty, simple-sweet and dear.
So fiercely smiteth love, I may not flee
Nor may my soul the dread assault sustain:
Death could not bring a sorrier weird to dree,
Yet unto none but thee may I complain.
Alas! one only mercy I implore.
When I am dead (as I to death am near)
Pray for me, and thy praying shall restore
My wounded spirit: shed one tender tear—
Great were my comfort if my piteous plea
Might touch thy heart, if sorrow might constrain
Thy lips to sigh, such need of sighs have we.
Yet unto none but thee may I complain.
Sweet flower, to whom I do abandon me,
My heart is broken down with bitter pain
For one whom Fortune would not have me see:
Yet unto none but thee may I complain.
Here is set forth how the Lover made Complaint unto his Friend
Thus did my sorrow increase until my heart endured very grievous torment, and without doubt this sore
