O Yonge fresshe folkes, he or she
In which that love up groweth with your age
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre

And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye
And sin he best to love is, and most meke
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?