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To one hole only, needs must be

In peril when ’tis his to flee.

And so a damsel fair, ywis,

When mistress of the field she is,

And may at will her suitors fain,

Good right hath she their gold to gain,

Nay, she would be a fool indeed

Who failed her interest to speed

Through giving all her love to one.

I swear by Saint Lifard of Meun

The fool doth all her ’vantage lose

Who one from out the crowd doth choose.

A captive she consents to be

And falleth most deservedly

To grief and misery a prey,

For that on one she cast away

Her heart. If he abandon her,

Where shall she find a comforter?

For if a woman holdeth fast

To one, his love will soon be past,

And in the end, poor wretch, she’s left

Of friends, of goods, of hope, bereft.

IDO great queen of Carthage, strove

Vainly to keep Æneas’ love,