Behold, love, thy power how she dispiseth,
My great payne, how litle she regardeth.
The holy oth, wherof she taketh no cure
Broken she hath, and yet she bideth sure
Right at her ease and litle she dredeth.
Wepened thou art and she unarmed sitteth.
To the disdaynfull her liff she ledeth,
To me spitefull withoute cause or mesure.
I ame in hold: if pitie the meveth,
Goo bend thy bowe that stony hertes breketh,
And with some stroke revenge the displeasure
Of thee and him, that sorrowe doeth endure,
And, as his lorde, the lowly entreateth.