Avysing the bright bemes of these fayer lyes

Avysing the bright bemes of these fayer lyes,
Where he is that myn oft moisteth and wassheth,
The werid mynde streght from the hert departeth.
For to rest in his woroldly paradise ;

And fynde the swete bitter under this gyse.
What webbes he hath wrought well he perceveth :
Whereby with himself on love he playneth :
That spurreth with fyer and bridilleth with Ise.

Thus is it in suche extremitie brought;
In frossen though no we , and no we it stondeth in flame :
Twyst misery and welth twyst ernest and game ;

But few glad, and many a dyvers thought.
With sore repentaunce of his hardines :
Of suche a rote cometh ffruyte fruytles.