Classic Poem

I have grete marvel of a brid
That with my love is went away;
She bildes her in another stid:
Therfore I morn both night and day.
I couth never serve that brid to pay,
Ne frendship with her can I none find,
But fast fro me she flys away—
Alas that ever she was unkind!

Alas! why is she with me wroth,
And to that brid I trespast nought?
Ye, if she be never so loth,
She shall nought come out of my thought.
Now of me she gives right nought,
But bildes her fer under a lind,
In bitter bales she has me brought—
Alas that ever she was unkind! …