D'où vient cela, belle, je vous supply, que plus à moy ne vous me recommandez, tousjours seray de tristesse remply, jusques à tant qu'au vray le me mandez, tousjours je croy que plus d'amy ne demandez ou mauvais bruit de moy on vous revelle ou vostre coeur a fait amour nouvelle.
From where comes this, Beauty, I beg of you, That you no longer do relate to me? Ever shall I be filled up with sadness Until you should send me but a sign. I believe you no longer want a friend, Or someone has spoken ill of me to you, Or your heart has now taken up a new love.
[If you do quit the pretty train of love, You do but make your beauty a prisoner. If you’ve forgotten due to someone else, May God then grant to you your dearest wish; But if you think badly of me at all I want only that you be as sweet to me, Or even more, as you are being stubborn.]