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