I.

Your yen two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit throughout my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, while that hit is grene,
Your yen two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey you feithfully
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your yen two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit throughout my herte kene.

II.

So hath your beautee fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey you sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beautee fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that Nature hath in you compassed
So greet beautee, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath your beautee fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

III.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere, and seye this and that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name ystrike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For evermo; ther is non other mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

You call yourself a man,
 For all you used to swear,
An' leave me, as you can,
 My certain shame to bear?
 I 'ear!  You do not care—
You done the worst you know.
 I 'ate you, grinnin' there....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

  Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over—
  Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to your lover!
  What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you
  (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?

It aren't no false alarm,
 The finish to your fun;
You—you 'ave brung the 'arm,
 An' I'm the ruined one;
 An' now you'll off an' run
With some new fool in tow.
 Your 'eart?  You 'aven't none....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

  When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im;
  All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im.
  What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im
  (Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im?

What 'ope for me or—it?
 What's left for us to do?
I've walked with men a bit,
 But this—but this is you.
So 'elp me Christ, it's true!
 Where can I 'ide or go?
You coward through and through!...
 Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

  All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin'—
  Love lies dead, an' you cannot kiss 'im livin'.
  Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin'
  (Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'!

You'd like to treat me fair?
 You can't, because we're pore?
We'd starve?  What do I care!
 We might, but this is shore!
 I want the name—no more—
The name, an' lines to show,
 An' not to be an 'ore....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

  What's the good o' pleadin', when the mother that bore you
  (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
  Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow
  (Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!