My meaning is to work what woundës love hath wrought,
Wherewith I muse why men of wit have love so dearly bought.
For love is worse than hate, and eke more harm hath done;
Record I take of those that rede of Paris, Priam's son.
It seemed the god of sleep had mazed so much his wits
When he refusëd wit for love, which cometh but by fits.
But why accuse I him whom earth hath covered long?
There be of his posterity alive ; I do him wrong.
Whom I might well condemn, to be a cruel judge
Unto myself, who hath that crime in others that I grudge.
Source: Poetry of the English Renaissance 1509-1660.
J. William Hebel and Hoyt H. Hudson, Eds.
New York: F. S. Crofts & Co., 1941. 103.