The Answer


The answer

Even when you lust, ye may refrain
To pain yourself thus wilfully.
Neither new nor old I do retain.
It is naught but your fantasy.

Your proffered service is nothing sweet
Yet would you fain it properly.
I do not love but where it is meet.
I change nothing my fantasy.

Your meat and drink, though it be gone,
Ye took enough when it was by;
Or ye may call for more anon,
When it shall please your fantasy.

It was your feeble founded love,
That fancy founded foolishly,
That made me love, longer to prove
Such foolish feigned fantasy.

If that your fancy, as you say,
Doth cause you plain thus piteously,
Easily to turn, perdie, you may,
When it shall please your fantasy.

Your chain is long, though you be bound,
For ye leap far and diversely.
To small effect your words doth sound.
They come but of your fantasy.

As ye did knit, so did I knit,
Even slack for slack right wisely.
I doubt it much, your new-fangled wit,
Which proved is by your fantasy.

Thus to complain withouten grief,
Thereto ye lust yourself apply.
The smartless needeth no relief:
I am not ruled by fantasy.
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