What a bitter taste is this rose's thorn,
Which pricks at my heart as though it were skin,
Madness and folly befall my crown,
Shackling my mind with temptation to sin.
My weary heart betrays me still,
Lured to false hope and fatal chance,
A bear's nose leading him to a false kill,
A hunter betrayed by the wiles of man.
Oh hear me now my darling Lady,
Whose dementing allure draws me yet,
Struck by beauty which I am forbidden this day,
Haunted always by the grace which I met.
Were it not for my good wit, I would've given chase.
But ache still does my heart, as it knows not your ways.
