Lynesse

Desirous of sweet wooing as dames are,

And seeing other knights pursue their loves

Even unto the lists, and risk a bloody death

To win the dame they wished to wive,

 And knowing that her lover never saw

The look she sent her husband, leading to his fall,

She never spoke of it and thus did hide the fact.

There did it fester as an unhealed sore.

 Sometime she stole off to the yard

And whispered in the ear of the tall steed

Her great guilt at her husband’s death

As at her hands, tears washed the noble mane.

Seeing his mistress passing sad

Her lover thought she sorrowed for her lord

And loved him still.

Thus lived they on for many years. 

For whether by design or no,

Love born of base dishonour never thrives.