A goodely hand

A goodely hand
Wherein doeth stand
My hert distrast in payne ;
Faire hand, Alas
In litle spas
My liff that doeth restrayne.

O fyngers slight
Departed right,
So long so small so rownd ;
Goodely begone, lo
And yet alone
Most cruell in my wound.

With Lilis whight
And Roses bright
Doeth stryve thy color faire ;
Nature did lend
Eche fyngers ende
A perle for to repayre.

Consent at last,
Syns that thou hast
My hert in thy demayne ;
For service trew
On me to rew
And reche me love agayne.

And if not so.
Then with more woo.
Enforce thiself to strayne
This simple hert
That suffereth smart,
And rid it owte of payne.