“The rose, the lillyis, and the violet,
Unpullit, sone ar with the wind ouirset,
And fallis doun but[620] ony frut, I wis:
Thairfore I say, sen that no-thing may let[621],
Bot thy bricht hew mon[622] be with yeris fret[623],
(For every-thing bot for ane season is,)
Thow may nocht have ane more excellent blis
Than ly all nicht in-to min armis plet[624],
To hals and brais[625] with mony lusty kis,
“And have my tender body be thy side,