«Where is my owne lady lefe and dere?
Where is here white brest, where is it, where?
Where been her armes, and her eyen clere
That yesterday this time with me were?...»
Nor there nas houre in all the day or night,
Whan ne was ther as no man might him here,
That he ne sayd: «O lovesome lady bright,
How have ye faren sins that ye were there?
Welcome ywis mine owne lady dere!...»
Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune,
And every thing came him to remembraunce,
As he rode forth by the places of the toune,
In which he whilom had all his pleasaunce:
«Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce,
And in that temple with her eien clere,
Me caught first my right lady dere.
And yonder have I herde full lustely
My dere herte laugh, and yonder play
Saw her ones eke full blissfully,
And yonder ones to me gan she say:
«Now, good sweete, love me well, I pray.»
And yonde so goodly gan she me behold,
That to the death mine herte is to her hold....
«And at the corner in the yonder house,
Herde I mine alderlevest lady dere,
So womanly, with voice melodiouse,
Singen so wel, so goodly and so clere,
That in my soul yet me thinketh I here
The blissful sowne, and in that yonder place,
My lady first me toke unto her grace.»
(Liv. V.)
When shouris sote of rain descendid soft,
Causing the ground, felè times and oft,
Up for to give many a wholesome air,
And every plain was yclothid faire
With newè grene, and makith smalè flours
To springen here and there in field and mede,
So very gode and wholesome be the shours,
That they renewin that was old and dede
In winter time, and out of every sede
Springeth the herbè, so that every wight
Of this seson venith richt glad and light....
In which (grove) were okis grete, streight as a line,
Under the which the grass so freshe of hew
Was newly sprong, and an eight fote or nine
Every tre well fro his fellow grew,
With braunchis brode, ladin with levis new,
That sprongin out agen the sonne shene,
Some very red, and some a glad light grene....
And I, that all these plesaunt sightis se,
Thought suddainly I felt so swete an air
Of the Eglentere, that certainly
There is no hert (I deme) in such dispair
Ne yet with thougtis froward and contraire
So overlaid, but it should sone have bote,
It it had onis felt this savour sote.
And I as stode, and cast aside mine eye,
I was ware of the fairist medler tre,
That evir yet in all my life I se,
As full of blossomis as it might be;
Therein a goldfinch leping pretily
From bough to bough, and as him list, he ete
Here and there of buddis and flouris swete....