Lyke as it shulde shiver in peces smale;
And, as me thoughte, that the nightingale
With so gret mighte her voys gan out-wreste
Right as her herte for love wolde breste.
50
The soil was playn, smothe, and wonder softe
Al oversprad with tapites that Nature
Had mad her-selve, celured eek alofte
With bowes grene, the floures for to cure,
That in hir beautè they may longe endure