The Answer that ye made to me, my dear

The answer that ye made to me, my dear,
When I did sue for my poor heart's redress,
Hath so appall'd my countenance and my cheer
That in this case I am all comfortless,
Since I of blame no cause can well express.

I have no wrong where I can claim no right,
Nought ta'en me fro where I have nothing had,
Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite:
Namely, since that another may be glad,
With that that thus in sorrow makes me sad.

Nor none can claim, I say, by former grant
That knoweth not of any grant at all;
And by desert, I dare well make avaunt,
Of faithful will there is nowhere that shall
Bear you more truth, more ready at your call.

Now good then call again that bitter word
That touch'd your friend so near with pangs of pain,
And say, my dear, that it was said in bourd:
Late, or too soon, let it not rule the gain
Wherewith free will doth true desert retain.
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