It was my choyse it was no chance

It was my choyse it was no chance
That browght my hart in others holde
Wherby ytt hath had sufferaunce
Lenger perde then Reason wold
Syns I ytt bownd where ytt was free
Me thinkes ywys of ryght yt shald Acceptyd be.
Accepted be withowte refuse,

Unles that fortune have the power,
All ryght of love for to abuse;
For, as they say : one happy howre
May more prevayle than Ryght or Myght.
Yf fortune then list for to lowre
What vaylyth Ryght !
What vaylyth Ryght yff this be true?

Then trust to chaunce and go by gesse
Then who so lovyth may well go sew
Uncerten Hope for hys redresse.
Yett some wold say, assuredly :
Thou mayest appele for thy relesse To Fantasy.
To Fantasy pertaynys to chose :
All thys I knowe, for fantasy

Ffurst unto love dyd me induse ;
But yet I knowe as stedefastly
That yff love have no faster knott,
So nyce a choyse slippes sodenly,
Yt lastyth not.
Ytt lastyth not that stondes by change;
Fansy doth change : fortune ys frayle :

Both thes to plese the way ys strange ;
Therfore me thynkes best to prevayle,
There ys no way that ys so just,
As trowgh to lede, tho tother fayle,
And therto trust.