Me list no more to sing

Me list no more to sing
Of love nor of suche thing
Howe sore that yt me wring;
For what I song or spake
Men dede my songis my stake.
My songes ware to defuse,
Theye made folke to muse ;
Therefor, me to excuse,
Theye shall be song more plaine,
Nothr of joye nor payne,
What vailith then to skipp
At fructe over the lipp,
For frute withouten tast
Dothe noght but rott and waste.
What vaylith under kaye
To kepe treasure alwaye
That never shall se daye ?
Yf yt be not usid,
Yt ys but abusid.
What vayleth the flower.
To stond still and whithr ;
Yf no man yt savour,
It servis onlye for sight
And fadith towardes night.
Therefore fere not tassaye
To gadre ye that maye.
The flower that this daye
Is fresher than the next;
Mark well I saye, this text.
Let not the frute be lost
That is desirid moste,
Delight shall quite the coste;
Yf hit be tane in tyme
Small labour is to clyme.
And as for such tresure.
That makith thee the richer.
And no dele the porer,
When it is geven or lente
Methinkes yt ware well spent.
If this be undre miste,
And not well playnlye wyste,
Undrestonde me who lyste ;
For I seke not a bene,
I wott what I doo meane.