A YULE GRETYNGE.
For yow and for noon other, ladye dere,
At this ful jolyf sesoun of the yeer
Now wol I truste, ne thynkynge naught of cost,
This litel yefte to yon rede pilere post;
Ryghte wel ystampen sikerly, I trowe,
Anon myn yefte schal come to noon but yow.
Ne golde han I to yeve, ne pretious gere,
But floures that ben ful rare (this tyme of yeer).
Ne yelwe astere, late ycome to toun,
Ne yet (God wot) a grene carnacioun,
But tak al fressche from Convent Gardyn plot
Myn flour, and eek prayere, "Foryete-me-not."
With feste and merie chere and moche solas
Sone wol this jolyf sesoun yeve us grace;
So mote ye spende, whanne that bels swete chyme
At yule, in sothe a veray parfait tyme.
"At Cristemasse merie may ye dance,"
And in the Newe Yeer han gret plesance:
So fare now wel, myn hertes queene; I praie
R.S.V.P.—Ther nys no more to saye!