The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre love, is vaine,
    That fondly feare to loose your liberty;
    when loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
    and make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tye,
    without constraynt or dread of any ill:
    the gentle birde feeles no captivity
    within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill.
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
    the league twixt them, that loyal love hath bound:
    but simple truth and mutuall good will
    seekes with sweet peace to salve each others wound.
There fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen towre,
    and spotlesse pleasure builds her sacred bowre.