How she then wore it on the brows,
⁠Yet am I glad to have her dead
Here in this wretched wattled house
⁠Where I can kiss her eyes and head.

Nothing is better, I well know,
⁠Than love; no amber in cold sea
Or gathered berries under snow:
⁠That is well seen of her and me.

Three thoughts I make my pleasure of:
⁠First I take heart and think of this:
That knight's gold hair she chose to love,
⁠His mouth she had such will to kiss.

Then I remember that sundawn
⁠I brought him by a privy way
Out at her lattice, and thereon
⁠What gracious words she found to say.

(Cold rushes for such little feet—
⁠Both feet could lie into my hand.
A marvel was it of my sweet
⁠Her upright body could so stand.)

"Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace;
⁠Now am I clean and whole of shame,
Nor shall men burn me in the face
⁠For my sweet fault that scandals them."