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Als I me rode this endre day, |
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O'my pleyinge, |
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Seih I whar a litel may |
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Bigan to singe: |
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"The clot him clinge! |
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Wai is him I' louve-longinge |
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Shall libben ay, |
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That slepen I ne may." |
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Son ich herde that mirie note, |
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Thider I drogh; |
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I fonde hire in an herber swot |
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Under a bogh |
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With joye inogh. |
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Son I asked: "Thou mirie may, |
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Why singest thou ay, |
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That slepen I ne may?" |
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Now springes the spray |
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All for love ich am so seek, |
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That slepen I ne may. |
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Than answerde that maiden swote |
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Midde wordes fewe: |
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"My lemman me haves bihot |
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Of louve trewe; |
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He chaunges anewe. |
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If I may, it shall him rewe |
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By this day, |
|
That slepen he ne may." |
