XLIV
No choice of change can ever change my mind;
Choiceless my choice, the choicest choice alive;
Wonder of women, were she not unkind,
The pitiless of pity to deprive.
Yet she, the kindest creature of her kind,
Accuseth me of self-ingratitude,
And well she may, sith by good proof I find
Myself had died, had she not helpful stood.
For when my sickness had the upper hand,
And death began to show his awful face,
She took great pains my pains for to withstand,
And eased my heart that was in heavy case.
But cruel now, she scorneth what it craveth;
Unkind in kindness, murdering while she saveth.
