Till that a sigh becomes my frende, And then to all this wo doth ende. (105) And sure I thinke that sigh doth roon, From me to you where ay you woon. For well I finde it easeth me, And certes much it pleaseth me, To think that it doth come to you, (110) As would to God it could so do. For then I know you would soone finde, By sent and sauour of the winde. That euen a martirs sigh it is, Whose ioy you are and all his blis. (115) His comfort and his pleasure eke, And euen the same that he doth seke. The same that he doth wishe and craue, The same that he doth trust to haue. To tender you in all he may, (120) And all your likinges to obey, As farre as in his powre shall lye: Till death shall darte him for to dye. But wealeaway mine owne most best, My ioy, my comfort, and my rest. (125) The causer of my wo and smart, And yet the pleaser of my hart. And she that on the earth aboue: Is euen the worthiest for to loue. Heare now my plaint, heare now my wo. (130) Heare now his paine that loues you so. And if your hart do pitie beare, Pitie the cause that you shall heare. A dolefull foe in all this doubt, Who leaues me not but sekes me out, (135) Of wretched forme and lothsome face, While I stand in this wofull case: Comes forth and takes me by the hand, And saies frende harke and vnderstand. I see well by thy port and chere, (140) And by thy lokes and thy manere, And by thy sadnes as thou goest, And by the sighes that thou outthrowest That thou art stuffed full of wo, The cause I thinke I do well know.