Troilus and Criseyde

Thus in this heaven he took his delight And smothered her with kisses upon kisses Till gradually he came to know where bliss is.

Men may the wise atrenne, and naught atrede.

For thus men seyth, "That on thenketh the beere, But al another thenketh his ledere.

Ne nevere mo ne lakked hire pite; Tendre-herted, slydynge of corage; But trewely, I kan nat telle hire age.

Go litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye, Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye, So sende myght to make in som comedye! But litel book, no makyng thow n'envie, But subgit be to alle poesye; And kis the steppes where as thow seest pace Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.