Classic Poem

Bewailling in my chamber thus allone,
Despeired of all my joye and remedye,
For-tiret of my thought and wo-begone,
And to the wyndow gan I walk in hye,
To see the warld and folk that went forbye,
As for the tyme though I of mirthis fude
Mycht have no more, to luke it did me gude.

Now was there maid fast by the Touris wall
A gardyn faire, and in the corner's set
Ane herbere greene, with wandis long and small,
Railit about, and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lyf was non walkyng there forbye,
That mycht within scarce any wight aspy.

So thick the bewis and the levis grene
Beschadit all the allyes that there were,
And myddis every herbere mycht be sene
The scharpe grene suete jenepere,
Growing so fair with branchis here and there,
That, as it semyt to a lyf without,
The bewis spred the herbere all about.

And on the smale grene twistis sat
Thy lytil suete nyghtingale, and song
So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat
Of luvis use, now soft now lowd among,
That all the gardynis and the wallis rong
Ryght of thair song, and on the copill next
Of thaire suete armony, and lo the text:

"Worschippe, ye that loveris bene, this May,
For of your bliss the kalendis are begonne,
And sing with us, away winter, away,
Come somer, come, the suete seson and sonne,
Awake, for schame! that have your hevynis wonne,
And amourously lift up your hedis all,
Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call.

When thai this song had song a littil thrawe,
Thai stent a quhile, and therewith unafraid,
As I beheld, and kest myn eyen a-lawe,
From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid,
And freschly in thair birdis kynd araid
Thair fatheris new, and fret thame in the sonne,
And thankit Lufe, that had their makis wonne.

And therewith kest I doun myn eye ageyne,
Whare as I saw walkyng under the Toure,
Full secretely, new cumyn hir to playne,
The fairest or the freshest younge floure
That ever I sawe, methought, before that houre,
For which sodayne abate, anon astert
The blude of all my body to my hert.

And though I stood abaisit tho a lyte,
No wonder was; for why? my wittis all
Were so ouercome with plesance and delyte,
Only through latting of myn eyen fall,
That sudaynly my hert become hir thrall,
For ever of free wyll, for of manace
There was no takyn in her suete face.

And in my hede I drew rycht hastily,
And eft sones I lent it out ageyne,
And saw hir walk that verray womanly,
With no wight mo, bot only women tueyne,
Than gan I studye in myself and seyne:
"Ah! suete, are ye a warldly creature,
Or hevinly thing in likeness of nature?

"Or ye god Cupidis owin princess?
And cumyn are to louse me out of band,
Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse,
That have depayntit with your hevinly hand
This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand?
What sall I think, allace! what reverence
Sall I minister to your excellence?

"Giff ye a goddess be, and that ye like
To do me payne, I may it not astert;
Giff ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike,
Why lest God mak you so, my derest hert,
To do a sely prisoner thus smert,
That lufis you all, and wote of nought but wo?
And, therefore, merci, suete! sen it is so."

When I a lytill thrawe had maid my mone,
Bewailing myn infortune and my chance,
Unknawin' how or what was best to done,
So ferre I fallyng into lufis dance,
That sodaynly my wit, my contenance,
My hert, my will, my nature, and my mynd,
Was changit clene rycht in ane other kind.