Classic Poem

All other love is like the mone
That wext and wanet as flowre in plein,
As flowre that fairet and fawet sone,
As day that scowret and endet in rein.

All other love bigint by blisse,
In wep and wo mak his ending;
No love ther nis that our alle lisse,
Bot what areste in hevene king,

Whos love is … and ever grene,
And ever full withoute waning;
His love sweteth withoute tene,
His love is endless and aring.

All other love I flo for thee;
Tell me, tell me, where thou list?
“In Marye milde and free
I schal be founde, ak mor in Crist.”

Crist me founde, nought I thee. Hast!
Hald me to thee with all thy mein;
Help geld that my love be stedfast,
Lest thus sone it turne agein.

Whan now yet min hert is sor,
Iwis hie spilt min herte blod;
God canne my lef, I care na mor—
Yet I hoppe his will be god.

Allas! what wole I a Rome?
Seye I may in lore of love:
“Undo I am by manne dome,
Bot he me help that sit above.”