She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their dear loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned gracefully,
Have woven round my heart a net:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Albeit she be not for me,
God send her grace and grant that she
Know nought of sorrow all her days:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Margery.
I
When Spring is here and Margery
Goes walking in the woods with me,
She is so white, she is so shy,
The little leaves clap hands and cry—
Perdie!
So white is she, so sky is she,
Ah me!
The maiden May hath just passed by!