And if that beauty had not been more kind
That pity, long ere this he had been pined;
But beauty is content his food to be.
O pity have when such poor orphans beg!
Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back;
And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,
Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack.
And yet though blind he beauty can behold,
And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.

VII

_Of several complaints of misfortune in love only_

Pity refusing my poor love to feed,
A beggar starved for want of help he lies;
And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries,
That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed.
But as he waiteth for some almes deed,
A cherry tree before the door he spies.
"O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice.
Two only may save life in this my need."
But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat?
Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son,
And never feedeth but on dainty meat,
Else need he not to pine, as he hath done;
For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree
Can give food to my love and life to me.

VIII

_Of his lady's veil wherewith she covered her_

The fowler hides as closely as he may
The net, where caught the silly bird should be,
Lest he the threatening poison should but see,
And so for fear be forced to fly away.
My lady so, the while she doth assay
In curled knots fast to entangle me,
Put on her veil, to th' end I should not flee
The golden net wherein I am a prey.
Alas, most sweet! what need is of a net
To catch a bird that is already ta'en?
Sith with your hand alone you may it get,
For it desires to fly into the same.
What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap,
When of themselves they fly into your lap?

IX

_To his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he
kissed_

Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art,
From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;
So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,
Bearing my breast the print of every dart.
Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart,
Where I in living torments never die.
His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I
All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.
Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I,
The bow that shot these shafts a re