Classic Poem

Ase I me rod this ender day,
By grene wode to seche play,
Mid herte I thoghte all on a may,
Swetest of alle thinge.
Lithe, and ich ou telle may
All of that swete thinge.

This maiden is swete and fre of blod,
Bright and fair, of milde mod;
Alle he may don us god,
Thurh hire besechinge.
Of hire he tok flesh and blod,
Jesus, Hevene Kinge.

With all my lif I love that may:
He is my solas night and day,
My joye and eke my beste play,
And eke my love-longinge.
All the betere me is that day
That ich of hire singe.

Of alle thinge I love hire mest,
My dayes blis, my nightes rest;
He counseileth and helpeth best
Bothe elde and yinge.
Now I may, yef I wole,
The fif joyes minge.

The furst joye of that wimman,
When Gabriel from Hevene cam,
And seide God shulde become man,
And of hire be bore,
And bringe up of helle pin
Monkin that wes forlore.

That other joye of that may
Wes o Christesmasse day,
When God wes bore on thoro lay,
And broghte us lightnesse.
The ster wes seie before day,
This hirdes bereth witnesse.

The thridde joye of that levedy,
That men clepeth the Epiphany,
When the kinges come wery
To presente hire sone
With myrre, gold and incens
That wes mon become.

The furthe joye we telle mawen,
On Estermorewe, when it gon dawen,
Hire sone, that wes slawen,
Aros in flesh and bon.
More joy ne may me haven,
Wif ne maiden non.

The fifte joye of that wimman,
When hire body to Hevene cam,
The soule to the body nam
Ase it wes woned to bene.
Christ leve us alle with that wimman
That joye all for to sene.

Preye we alle to oure Levedy,
And to the sontes that woneth hire by,
That he of us haven mercy,
And that we ne misse
In this world to ben holy,
And winne Hevene blisse.