How oft do they their silver bowers leave

I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.

I hate the day, because it lendeth light To see all things, but not my love to see.

I trow that countenance cannot lie, Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.

So love is Lord of all the world by right.

Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde famous poete Chaucer.