Good is it to me if she flout

Or turn me inside out, and about.

My ill doth she turn sweet.

How swift it is.

For I am traist and loose,

I am true, or a liar,

All vile, or all gentle,

Or shaking between,

as she desire,

I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,

The man whom love had

and has ever;

Alas! who’er it please or pain,

She can me retain.

I am gone from one joy,

From one I loved never so much,

She by one touch

Reft me away;

So doth bewilder me

I can not say my say

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