Som fowles there be that have so perfaict sight
Agayn the Sonne their Iyes for to defend,
And som bicause the light doeth theim offend
Do never pere but in the darke or nyght.
Other reioyse that se the fyer bright
And wene to play in it as they do pretend,
And fynd the contrary of it that they intend.
Alas, of that sort I may be by right,
For to withstond her loke I ame not able,
And yet can I not hide me in no darke place,
Remembraunce so foloweth me of that face,
So that with tery yen, swolne and vnstable,
My destyne to behold her doeth me lede,
Yet do I knowe I runne into the glede.