Ons as me thought fortune me kyst
And bad me aske what I thought best
And I should have it as me list
Therewith to set my hert in rest.
I asked nought but my dere hert
To have for evermore myn owne;
Then at an ende were all my smert,
Then should I nede no more to mone.
Yet for all that a stormy blast
Had overtorned this goodely day
And fortune semed at the last
That to her promes she saide nay.
But like as oon oute of dispere
To soudden hope revived I;
Now fortune sheweth herself so fayer
That I content me wonderly.
My moost desire my hand may reche;
My will is alwaye at my hand;
Me nede not long for to beseche
Her that hath power me to commaund.
What erthely thing more can I crave?
What would I wisshe more at my will?
No thing on erth more would I have
Save, that I have, to have it still.
For fortune hath kept her promes
In graunting me my moost desire:
Of my sufferaunce I have redres
And I content me with my hiere.