Classic Poem

When the nightegale singes,
The wodes waxen grene:
Lef and gras and blosme springes,
In Averil, I wene.
And love is to mine herte gon
With one spere so kene:
Night and day my blod it drinkes;
Mine herte deth me tene.

Ich have loved all this yer
That I may love na more;
Ich have siked mony sik,
Lemmon, for thine ore.
Me nis love never the ner,
And that me reweth sore.
Swete lemmon, thench on me:
Ich have loved thee yore.

Swete lemmon, I preye thee
Of love one speche.
Whil I live, in world so wide
Other nulle I seche.
With thy love, my swete lef,
My blis thou mightes eche:
A swete kos of thy mouth
Mighte be my leche.

Swete lemmon, I preye thee
Of a love-bene.
Yef thou me lovest, ase men says,
Lemmon, as I wene,
And, yef it thy wille be,
Thou loke that it be sene.
So muchel I thenke upon thee
That all I waxe grene.

Betwene Lincolne and Lindeseye,
Northamptoun and Lounde,
Ne wot I non so fair a may
As I go fore ibounde.
Swete lemmon, I preye thee
Thou lovie me a stounde.
I wole mone my song
On wham that it is on ilong.