O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she, 
In which that love up groweth with your age, 
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, 
And of your herte up-casteth the visage 
To thilke god that after his image 
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre 
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. 

And loveth him, the which that right for love 
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, 
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; 
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, 
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye. 
And sin he best to love is, and most meke, 
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?