How the Lover perisheth in his Delight as the Fly in the Fire

SOME fowls there be that have so perfect sight,

Against the sun their eyes for to defend;

And some, because the light doth them offend,

Never appear but in the dark or night:

Other rejoice to see the fire so bright,

And ween to play in it, as they pretend,

But find contrary of it, that they intend.

Alas! of that sort may I be by right;

For to withstand her look I am not able;

Yet can I not hide me in no dark place;

So followeth me remembrance of that face,

That with my teary eyen, swoln, and unstable,

My destiny to behold her doth me lead;

And yet I know I run into the glead.