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And comfort her. A pilgrimage

He vows to God will He assuage

Her malady, and lets her know

Thereof—though nought he means to go.

The food she loves doth he aver

Is good, and nought besiegeth her

With nauseous draughts, nor aught, ywis.

But what right sweet and grateful is.

Then pleasant fictions he’ll invent,

Of how the night foregone he spent,

Vowing that drearily it sped,

No sweet companion in his bed

To solace him, and how awake

He restless lay, for her sweet sake,

Then sleeping, dreamed that in his arms,

Disrobed, beheld he all her charms,

To glowing health once more restored,

Able and willing to afford

The joys he longs for; doubt not such

Fair fictions will console her much.

Thus have I striven in verse to tell

How should a lover, sick or well,

His mistress treat if he desire

To keep alive the sacred fire

Of ardent love, whose flame may be

Snuffed out and quenched right easily

By any wight, who selfish ease

Prefers, nor troubleth him to please

Her fancy.

Framed and meddled so

Is woman’s heart that man can know