Classic Poem

To you, dere herte, variant and mutable,
Like to Carybdis which is unstable.
O fresch floure, most plesant of prise,
Fragrant as federfoy to mannes inspeccion,
Me semeth by youre contenaunce ye be wonder nice,
You for to medil with any retorucion;
To me ye have sent a lettre of derusion,
Endighted full freshly with many corious iclause.
Wherfore I thanke you as I finde cause.

The Inglisch of Chaucere was nat in youre mind,
Ne Tullius termes with so gret eloquence,
But ye, as uncurtes and crabbed of kinde,
Rolled hem on a hepe, it semeth by the sentence;

And so dare I boldly withoute ony offence
Answere to your letter, as falleth to the purpose;
And thus I beginne, construe ye the glose.

Crist of his goodnesse and of his gret might
Formed many a criator to walke on the ground;
But he that beholdeth you by day and by night
Shall never have cause in hert to be jocound,
Remembering your grete hede and your forhed round,
With staring eyen, visage large and huge,
And either of youre pappes like a water-bowge.

Youre camused nose, with nose-thrilles brode,
Unto the chirch a noble instrument
To quenche tapers brenning afore the roode,

Is best apropred, at mine avisament;
Your lewd looking, doble of entent,
With courtly loke all of saferon hew,
That never wol faile — the colour is so trew!

Youre babir lippes of colour ded and wan,
With suche mouth like to Jacobes brother,
And yelow tethe not lik to the swan —
Set wide asonder, as eche cursed other;
In all a lond, who coude finde suche another,
Of alle fetures so ungoodly for to see,
With brethe as swete as is the elder tree?

Youre body is formed all in proporcion,
With hanging shuldres waving with every winde,
Small in the belly as a wine toune,
With froward fete, and crooked bak behinde;
He that you wold have alway in minde,
And for your love wold breke on oure reste,
I wold he were locched with Lucifer the depeste.

And of youre atire, shortly to devise,
Your templers colured as the lowcray,

With dagged hood, leid on pancake wise,
Your bolwerkes, pectorelles, and all your nice aray;

Treuly me semeth ye are a lovely may!
And namely on haliday, whan ye trip and daunce,
As a wilde goos keping your contenaunce!

Adew, dere herte, for now I make an ende
Unto suche time that I have better space.
The pip and the pose to you I recomend,
And God of his mercy graunte you so mikel grace
In paradise ones to have a resting place,
Up by the navel, fast by the water gate,
To loke after passage whan it cometh late.

Youre owne love, trusty and trewe,
You have forsake cause of a newe.