Alison

Bytuene Mershe ant Averil

When spray biginneth to spring,

The lutel foul hath hire wyl

On hyre lud to synge:

Ich libbe in love-longinge

For semlokest of alle thynge,

He may me blisse bringe,

Icham in hire bandoun.

On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,

Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;

With lossum chere he on me loh;

With middel smal ant wel y-make;

Bote he me wolle to hire take

For to buen hire owen make,

Long to lyven ichulle forsake

Ant feye fallen adoun.

Nihtes when I wende and wake,

For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;

Levedi, al for thine sake

Longinge is y-lent me on.

In world his non so wyter mon

That al hire bounté telle con;

Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,

Ant feyrest may in toune.

Icham for wowyng al for-wake,

Wery so water in wore;

Lest eny reve me my make

Ichabbe y-yerned yore.

Betere is tholien whyle sore

Then mournen evermore.

Geynest under gore,

Herkne to my roun—