Fragment of the end of a poem on Susanna. From a binding?
Susane the secunde patron of plesaunce
that called is so throwe alle lumbardye,
Righte demure of chere & of contenaunce,
And in daunsyng, sport and curtesie,
Wele demeand and lady of venerye:
Remembre your servaunt that righte true is
With that Reward not disdayne hym to kys.
And of youre gentilnes se that he
this frosty wedir be nat lost for colde,
And that not defawte in you founde be;
So that in Somer it may be said and tolde
ye kept him warm with your armys folde,
and With the Chere that ye hym made
fulle ofte ye made his hart Righte glade.
Nowe redres of alle my sorowes smert,
That Righte true be With outen variaunce,
I you biseche, With sore wounded hert;
Me counforte throwe youre daliaunce,
And of my body take youre plesaunce;
And kepe it secret and not disclose
Whome to be true I can suppose.
By him that in Forestes walkethe wyde
Where noone may passe With out his gyd,
Nor kene may in dale nor doune
But that he is other blake or broune.