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 Ma dame ye ben of Al Beaute ſhryne As fer As cercled is the mapamonde For As the cristall glorious ye ſhyne And lyke Ruby ben your chekys rounde Therwyth ye ben ſo mery and ſo iocunde That At A Reuell whan that I ſe you dance It is an oynement vnto my wounde Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful A tyne Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde Your ſemy voys that ye ſo ſmall out twyne Makyth my thoght in ioy And blys habounde So curtayſly I go wyth love bounde That to my ſelf I ſey in my penaunce Suffyſeth me to loue you Rosemounde Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in love Am walwed And I wounde For whych ful ofte I of my ſelf devyne That I Am trew Tristam the ſecunde My love may not refreyde nor affounde I brenne Ay in an Amorouſe pleſaunce Do what you lyſt I wyl your thral be founde Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.

tregentil//Chaucer Madame, you are a shrine of all beauty, As far encircling as the map of the world. For you shine as the glorious crystal, And your round cheeks are like Ruby. Therewith you are so merry and so jocund, That at a revel when that I see you dance; It is an ointment unto my wound, Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

For though I weep a basin of tears, Yet may that woe not confound my heart. Your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth, Make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound. So courteously I go, with love bound That, to myself, I say in my penance, "Suffer me to love you Rosemounde; Though you, to me, do no dalliance".

Never was pike so imbued in galantine As I in love, am imbued and wounded. For which I very oft, of myself, deign That I am true Tristam the Second. My love may not be cooled nor sunk, I burn in an amourous pleasance. Do what you like, I bid you find your thrall Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

very gently//Chaucer