Th enmy of liff, decayer of all kynde

Th enmy of liff, decayer of all kynde,
That with his cold withers away the grene :
This othr nyght me in my bed did fynde.
And offered me to rid my fiever clene.
And I did graunt : so did dispaire me blynde.
He drew his bo we with arrowe sharp and kene.
And strake the place where love had hit befor,
And drave the first dart deper more and more.