What no, perdy, ye may be sure! Think not to make me to your lure, With words and cheer so contrarying, Sweet and sour counterweighing; Too much it were still to endure. Truth is 'trayed where craft is in ure; But though ye have had my heart's cure, Trow ye I dote without ending? What no, perdy! Though that with pain I do procure For to forget that once was pure, Within my heart shall still that thing, Unstable, unsure, and wavering, Be in my mind without recure? What no, perdy! |