All my thoughts always speak to me of love, Yet have between themselves such difference That while one bids me bow with mind and sense, A second saith, “Go to: look thou above”; The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough; And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence: All of them craving pity in sore suspense, Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of. And thus, being all unsure which path to take, Wishing to speak I know not what to say, And lose myself in amorous wanderings: Until (my peace with all of them to make), Unto mine enemy I needs must pray, My lady Pity, for the help she brings.
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