Geoffrey Chaucer

And she was fair as is the rose in May.

My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

That wel by reson men hit calle may The 'dayesye' or elles the 'ye of day,' The emperice and flour of floures alle.

Of all the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche that men callen daysies in our toun.

And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye.

A thousand tymes have I herd men telle, That ther is joye in heven, and peyne in helle; And I acorde wel that hit is so; But natheles, yit wot I wel also, That ther nis noon dwelling in this contree, That either hath in heven or helle y-be

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake, And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

Nature, the vicar of th' Almightie Lorde.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere; And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dredful joy, that alwey slit so yerne, Al this mene I by love.

Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal! Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al; Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede: And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse, Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal; For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse, Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal.

Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde, That at a revel whan that I see you daunce, It is an oynement unto my wounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Madame, ye ben of al beautè shryne As fer as cercled is the mappemounde; For as the cristal glorious ye shyne, And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beautè of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

Hard is his herte that loveth nought In May.

For I am shave as nye as any frere. But yit I pray un-to youre curtesye: Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I die.

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Out of this toune help me through your might.

Soun is noght but air y-broken, And every speche that is spoken, Loud or privee, foul or fair, In his substaunce is but air; For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke, Right so soun is air y-broke.

Of alle maner of minstrales, And gestiours, that tellen tales Bothe of weping and of game, Of al that longeth unto Fame.

Ful craftier to pley she was Than Athalus, that made the game First of the ches: so was his name.