Classic Poem

Grene groweth the holy,
So doth the ivy.
Thow winter blastes blow never so hye,
Grene growth the holy.

As the holy growth grene
And never chaungeth hew,
So I am, ever hath bene,
Unto my lady trew.

As the holy growth grene
With ivy all alone,
When floweres cannot be sene
And grenewode leves be gone,

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
Frome all other only
To her I me betake.

Adew! mine owne lady,
Adew! my speciall,
Who hath my hart, trewly,
Be suere, and ever shall.