Me list no more to sing

Me list no more to sing
Of love nor of suche thing,
Howe sore that yt me wring;
For what I song or spake
Men dede my songis mistake.

My songes ware to defuse,
Theye made folke to muse;
Therefor, me to excuse,
Theye shall be song more plaine,
Nothr of joye nor payne.

What vaileth then to skipp
At fructe over the lippe?
For frute withouten taste
Dothe noght but rott and waste.

What vaileth undre kaye
To kepe treasure alwaye
That never shall se daye?
Yf yt be not usid,
Yt ys but abusid.

What vayleth the flowre
To stond still and whither?
Yf no man yt savour
Yt servis onlye for sight
And fadith towardes night.

Therefore fere not tassaye
To gadre ye that maye
The flower that this daye
Is fresher than the next:
Marke well, I saye, this text.

Let not the frute be lost
That is desired moste,
Delight shall quite the coste.
Yf hit be tane in tyme,
Small labour is to clyme.

And as for siche treasure
That makithe the the richer,
And no dele the porer,
When it is gyven or lente
Me thinkes yt ware well spente.

Yf this be undre miste,
And not well playnlye wyste,
Undrestonde me who lyste;
For I reke not a bene,
I wott what I doo meane.
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