Ma damoiselle ma maistresse
Aiez pitie de la tristesse
De mon povre douloureux cue[ur]
Lequel a par mon createur
Po[ur] vous amer trop de tristesse
Car tellement desir le presse
Que son mal tous les jours ne cesse
Il est mort par mon createur
Ma demoiselle ma maistresse . . .
Vous voiez bien quil ne sadresse
Qua vous seule ne na promesse
Que destre v[ost]re serviteur
Et sans lavoir trouve menteur
Il a de deul a grant largesse
Ma demoiselle ma maistresse . . .
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My maiden, my mistress,
have pity at the sadness
of my poor, pained heart,
which has, by my maker,
for loving, too much sadness.
Since desire so presses on it
that its pain day after day does not cease,
it is dead, by my maker.
My maiden, my mistress . . .
You know well that it does not address itself
but to you alone, and promises naught
but to be your servant.
And without falsehood
it has a great largesse of pain.
My maiden, my mistress . . .
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