My meaning is to work
What wonders love hath wrought,
Wherewith I muse, why men of wit
Have love so dearly bought.
For love is worse than hate,
And eke more harm hath done;
Record I take of those that rede
Of Paris, Priam’s son.
It seemed the god of sleep
Had mazed so much his wits,
When he refused wit for love,
Which cometh but by fits.
But why accuse I him,
Whom th’ earth hath covered long?
There be of his posterity
Alive, I do him wrong.
Whom I might well condemn,
To be a cruel judge
Unto myself, who hath the crime
In others that I grudge.
E.O.
