For whiche, O brighte [Lucina] the clere,
For love of god, ren faste aboute thy spere!
For whan thyn hornes newe ginne springe,
Than shal she come, that may my blisse bringe!'
95. The day is more, and lenger every night,
660
Than they be wont to be, him thoughte tho;
And that the sonne wente his course unright
By lenger wey than it was wont to go;
And seyde, 'y-wis, me dredeth ever-mo,