Payne of all payne the most grevous paine

Payne of all payne the most grevous paine
Ys to love hjurtelye and cannot be loved againe.
Love vith unkindenesse is cause of hevenis
Of inwarde sorro and sighis painefull.
Whereas I love is no redresse
To no maner of pastime, the sprites so dull
With privy morninges, and lokes rufull ;
The boddye all wrislye the color pale and wan,
More like a gost than like a lyving man
When Cupido hath enflamed the hertes desyres
To love there as ys disdayne,
Of guerdon ill, the mynde oblivyous.
Nothing regarding but love tattayne,
Alwais imagining by what meane or traine
Yt may be at rest, thus in a momente
Now here, now there, being never contente.
Tossing and torning, when the bodye wold rest.
With dreamis opprest and visions fantasticall,
Sleping or waking, love is ever preste.
Some tyme to wepe, some tyme to crye and call,
Bewayling his fortune and lif bestiall ;
Now in hope of recure, and now in despaire,
This ys a sorye lyf to lyve alwaye in care.
Recorde of Terence in his remedis poeticall :
Yn love ys Jelosy, and inimis mannye on,
Angre, and debate, with mynde sensuall,
Nowe warre now peace, musing all alone;
Some tyme all morte and colde as anye stone.
This causith unkyndenesse of suche as cannot skill
Of trewe love assurde with herte and good will.
Lucrece the Romaine for love of her lorde
And byecause perforce she had commit advowtrye
With Tarquinus, as the storye doth recorde.
Herself did slee with a knif most pituoslye
Among her nigh frendes ; bye cause that she
So falslye was betrayd, lo this was the guerdon,
Wheras true love hath no domynyon
To make so ferefull of olde antiquitye
What nedeth it? We see by experience.
Among lovers it chaunceth daylye
Displeasor and variance for none offens :
But if true love myght gyve sentens.
That unkyndenes and disdayne shuld have no place
But true harte, for true love, yt ware a gret grace !
O Venus, Ladye, of Love the goddesse
Help all true lovers to have love agayne
Bannishe from thye presens disdayne and unkyndenesse,
Kyndnesse and pytle to thy servise retayne
For true love, ons fixed in the cordiale vayne
Can never be revoulsid by no maner of arte
Unto the sowle from the boddye departe.