O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she, <br />In which that love up groweth with your age, <br />Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, <br />And of your herte up-casteth the visage <br />To thilke god that after his image <br />Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre <br />This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. <br /> <br />And loveth him, the which that right for love <br />Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, <br />First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; <br />For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, <br />That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye. <br />And sin he best to love is, and most meke, <br />What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?<br /><br />Geoffrey Chaucer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-unfeigned/
