And humblely songe hire repentynge,
And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe,
So that hire makes wolde upon hem rewe,
And at the laste maden hire acorde.

Al founde they Daunger for a tyme a lord,
Yet Pitee, thurgh his stronge gentil myght,
Forgaf, and made mercy passen ryght
Thurgh Innocence, and ruled Curtesye.
But I ne clepe yt nat innocence folye,
Ne fals pitee, for vertue is the mene,
As Ethike seith, in swich maner I mene.
And thus thise foweles, voide of al malice,
Acordeden to love, and laften vice

Of hate, and songe alle of oon acorde,
Welcome Somer, oure governour and lorde.'
And Zepherus, and Flora gentilly

Yav to the floures, softe and tenderly,

Hire swoote breth, and made hem for to sprede,
As god and goddesse of the floury mede.
In whiche me thoght I myghte, day by day,
Dwellen alwey, the joly monyth of May,
Withouten slepe, withcuten mete or drynke.
Adoune ful softely I gan to synke,

And lenynge on myn elbowe and my syde,
The longe day I shoope me for tabide
For nothing ellis, and I shal nat lye,
But for to loke upon the daysie;
That men by reson wel it calle may
The daisie, or elles the ye of day,
The emperice, and floure of floures alle.
pray to God that faire mote she falle,
And alle that loven floures, for hire sake:
But, natheles, ne wene nat that I make

I

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In preysing of the flour agayn the leef,
No more than of the corne agayn the sheef:
For as to me nys lever noon ne lother,
I nam withholden yit with never nother.
Ne I not who serveth leef, ne who the flour,
Wel browken they her service or labour,
For this thing is al of another tonne,

Of olde storye, er swiche thinge was begonne.

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Whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste, And that this floure gan close, and goon to reste, For derknesse of the nyght, the which she dredde, Home to myn house full swiftly I me spedde 200 To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse, To seen this flour sprede, as I devyse. And in a litel herber that I have, That benched was on turves fressh ygrave, I bad men sholde me my couche make; For deyntee of the newe someres sake, I bad hem strawen floures on my bed. Whan I was leyde, and hadde myn eyen hed, I fel on slepe, in-with an houre or twoo, Me mette how I lay in the medewe thoo, To seen this flour that I love so and drede ; And from a fer come walkyng in the mede The God of Love, and in his hande a quene, And she was clad in real habite grene; A fret of gold she hadde next her heer, And upon that a white corowne she beer, With flourouns smale, and, I shal nat lye For al the worlde ryght as a daysye Ycorouned ys with white leves lyte,

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So were the flowrouns of hire coroune white; 220 For of oo perle, fyne, oriental,

Hire white coroune was imaked al,
For which the white coroune above the grene
Made hire lyke a daysie for to sene,
Considered eke hir fret of golde above.
Yclothed was this myghty God of Love
In silke enbrouded, ful of grene greves,
In-with a fret of rede rose leves,
The fresshest syn the worlde was first begonne.
His gilte here was corowned with a sonne
In stede of golde, for hevynesse and wyghte;
Therwith me thoght his face shoon so brighte
That wel unnethes myght I him beholde;
And in his hande me thoght I saugh him holde
Twoo firy dartes, as the gledes rede,
And aungelyke hys wynges saugh I sprede.
And, al be that men seyn that blynd ys he,
Algate me thoghte that he myghte se;
For sternely on me he gan byholde,
So that his loking dooth myn herte colde.
And by the hande he helde this noble quene,
Corowned with white, and clothed al in grene,
So womanly, so benigne, and so meke,

That in this world, thogh that men wolde seke,
Half of hire beuté shulde men nat fynde
In creature that formed ys by kynde.
And therfore may I seyn, as thynketh me,
This songe in preysyng of this lady fre.

Hyd, Absalon, thynne gilte tressis clere;
Ester, ley thou thy mekenesse al adown;
Hyde, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penelopee, and Marcia Catoun,

Make of youre wifhode no comparysoun;

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Hyde ye youre beautes, Ysoude and Eleyne,
My lady comith, that al this may disteyne.

Thy faire body lat yt nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou Lucresse of Rome toune,
And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
And Cleopatre, with al thy passyoun,

Hyde ye your trouthe of love, and your renoun, 260
And thou, Tesbé, that hast of love suche peyne,
My lady comith, that al this may disteyne.

Hero, Dido, Laudomia, alle yfere,
And Phillis, hangyng for thy Demophoun,
And Canace, espied by thy chere,
Ysiphile betraysed with Jasoun,

Maketh of your trouthe neythir boost ne soun,
Nor Ypermystre, or Adriane, ye tweyne,
My lady cometh, that all this may dysteyne.

This balade may ful wel ysongen be,
As I have seyde erst, by my lady fre;
For certeynly al thise mowe nat suffise,
To apperen wyth my lady in no wyse.
For as the sonne wole the fire disteyne,
So passeth al my lady sovereyne,
That ys so good, so faire, so debonayre,
I prey to God that ever falle hire faire.
For nadde comfort ben of hire presence,
I hadde ben dede, withouten any defence,
For drede of Loves wordes, and his chere,
As, when tyme ys, herafter ye shal here..

Behynde this God of Love upon the grene

I saugh comyng of ladyes nientene
In real habite, a ful esy paas;

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And after hem come of wymen swich a traas,

That syn that God Adam hadde made made of erthe,
The thridde part of mankynde, or the ferthe,
Ne wende I nat by possibilitee,

Had ever in this wide worlde ybee,

And trewe of love, thise women were echon.
Now wheither was that a wonder thing or non,
That ryght anoon, as that they gonne espye
This flour, which that I clepe the daysie,
Ful sodeynly they stynten al attones,
And knelede doune, as it were for the nones,
And songen with o vois, 'Heel and honour
To trouthe of womanhede, and to this flour
That bereth our alder pris in figurynge,
Hire white corowne beryth the witnessynge?'
And with that word, a-compas enviroun,
They setten hem ful softely adoun.

First sat the God of Love, and syth his quene
With the white corowne, clad in grene;
And sithen al the remenaunt by and by,
As they were of estaat, ful curteysly,
Ne nat a worde was spoken in the place,
The mountaunce of a furlong wey of space.

I, knelyng by this floure, in good entente.
Aboode, to knowen what this peple mente,
As stille as any ston; til at the laste

This God of Love on me hyse eighen caste,

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And seyde, Who kneleth there?' and I answerde Unto his askynge, whan that I it herde,

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And seyde, It am I,' and come him nere,

And salwed him. Quod he,' What dostow here, So nygh myn oune floure, so boldely?

Yt were better worthy trewely