That tyme that myrthe dyd stere my shypp

That tyme that myrthe dyd stere my shypp,
Whyche now is frowght with hevines.
And fortune beate not then the lypp,
But was defence of my distresse,
Then in my boke wrote my maystresse,
" I am yowris you may well be sure
" And shall be whyle my lyff dothe dure."

But she her selffe whyche then wrote that.
Is now myn extreme enemye;
Above all men she dothe me hate,
Reioysyng of my myserye;
But though that for her sake I dye,
I shall be hers she may be sure.
As long as my lyff dothe endure.

It is not tyme that can were owt
With me that ons is fermly sett ;
Whyle nature kepys her corse abowt
My love from her no man can lett ;
Thowghe never so sore they me thrett
Yet am I hers she may be sure
And shall be whyle that lyff doeth dure.

And once I trust to see that day
Renewer of my Joy and welthe,
That she to me these wordes shall say :
In faith welcome," to me myselffe,
" Welcome, my joy, welcome, my helthe,
" For I am thyne thow mayst be sure
" And shallbe whyle that lyff dothe dure, "

Lo me alas, what woordes were these?
In covenant I myght fynd them so,
I reke not what smart or dysease
I suffred, so that I myght knoo
That she were myn, I myght be sure.
And shuld whyle that lyff dothe dure.