The Love Unfeigned

O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she,

In which that love up groweth with your age,

Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,

And of your herte up-casteth the visage

To thilke god that after his image

Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre

This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.

And loveth him, the which that right for love

Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,

First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;

For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,

That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.

And sin he best to love is, and most meke,

What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

Geoffrey Chaucer