Classic Poem

Lutel wot it any mon
How derne love may stonde,
Bote it were a fre wimmon
That much of love had fonde.
The love of hire ne lesteth nowiht longe;
Heo haveth me plight and witeth me with wronge.
Ever and o for my leof ich am in grete thoghte;
I thenche on hire that I ne seo nout ofte.

I wolde nemne hire today
And I dorste hire munne;
Heo is that feireste may
Of uch ende of hire kunne;
Bote heo me love, of me heo haves sunne.
Wo is him that loveth the love that he ne may ner winne!

Adoun I fell to hire anon
And crye, " Ledy, thin ore!
Ledy, ha mercy of thy mon!
Lef thou no false lore!
If thou dost, it wol me reowe sore.
Love drecheth me that I ne may live namore. "

Mury it is in hire tour
With hatheles and with heowes.
So it is in hire bour,
With gomenes and with gleowes.
Bote heo me lovie, sore it wol me rewe.
Wo is him that loveth the love that ner nul be trewe!

Fairest fode upo loft,
My gode luef, I thee greete
As fele sithe and oft
As dewes dropes beth weete,
As sterres beth in welkne and grases sour and swete.
Whose loveth untrewe, his herte is selde seete.

Lutel wot it any mon
How love him haveth ibounde
That for us on the rode ron
And boghte us with his wounde.
The love of him us haveth imaked sounde,
And icast the grimly gost to grounde.

Ever and o, night and day, he haveth us in his thoghte;
He nul nout leose that he so deore boghte.

He boghte us with his holy blod.
What shulde he don us more?
He is so meoke, milde, and good,
He nagulte nout therfore.
That we han idon, I rede we reowen sore,
And cryen ever to Jesu: " Crist, thin ore! "

He segh his fader so wonder wroth
With mon that wes ifalle,
With herte sor he seide his oth:
We shulde abeyen alle.
His swete sone to him gon clepe and calle,
And preyede he moste deye for us alle.

He broght us alle from the deth
And dude us frendes dede.
Swete Jesu of Nazareth,
Thou do us hevene mede.
Upon the rode why nulle we taken hede?
His grene wounde so grimly conne blede.

His deope wounden bledeth fast;
Of hem we oghte munne.
He hath us out of helle icast,
Ibroght us out of sunne.
For love of us his wonges waxeth thunne;
His herte blod he gef for all monkunne.

Litel wot it any mon
How derne love may stonde,
Bute it were a free wimmon
That muche of love had fonde.
The love of hir ne lasteth no wight longe:
Heo haveth me plight, and witeth me with wronge.
Ever and oo for my leef ich am in grete thoghte:
I thenche on hir that I ne see nought ofte.

I wolde nemne hir to-day
And I dorste hir minne.
Heo is that faireste may
Of ech ende of hir kinne.
Bute heo me love, of me heo haves sinne —
Wo is him that loveth the love that he ne may ne'r y-winne.
Ever and oo, etc .

Adown I fel to hir anon
And cried: " Lady, thyn ore!
Lady, ha mercy of thy mon!
Lef thou no false lore.
If thou dost, it wil me rewe sore:
Love drecheth me that I ne may live na more."
Ever and oo, etc .

Miry it is in hire towr
With hatheles and with hewe;
So it is in hire bowr
With gomenes and with glewe.
Bute heo me lovye, sore it wil me rewe —
Wo is him that loveth the love that ne'r n'il be trewe.
Ever and oo, etc .

" Fairest fode upo loft,
My goode leef, I thee greete
As fele sithe and oft
As dewes dropes beeth weete,
As sterres beeth in welkne, and grases sour and sweete" —
Whoso loveth untrewe, his herte is selde seete.
Ever and oo, etc .