Jesu that is most of might
Jesu that is most of might,
And made man above all thing,
Save my true-love, bothe day and night,
And kepe her well and in good liking.
For she is alwey full curteisse,
True and stedfast in every degree,
Swete as the rose that groeth on the risse,
As true turtill that sittes on a tree.
She is the demurest that I can see
Wheras I walke by est and weste;
No peere she hase in my eye,
For of all women I love her beste.
Her lippes are like unto cherye,
With teethe as white as whales bone;
Her browes bente as any can be,
With eyes clere as cristal stoune.
Her fingers be bothe large and longe,
With pappes rounde as any ball;
Nothing, methinke, on her is wronge;
Her medill is bothe gaunte and small.
She hathe my harte and ever shall,
And never to change her for no newe,
But for to love her terrestreall,
And whiles I live to her be true.
For I have gone throughe Englond on every side,
Brettin, Flanders, with many an oder place,
Yet founde I never non in these ways wide
Suche one as she is to my purpasse.
Wherfore I love her without let,
And for no thing I can cease;
So ferventlye on her my harte is set,
But I dare not put me in preace.
Wo be the while for my redress
Sithen I am borne to live in peine,
And thus to be lafte all comfortless,
To love and be not loved ageine.
Yet throughe governance growethe grace;
I have harde men say in towne and strete,
How fortune cumethe into many a place—
And with good fortune I trust to mete.
Adeu, dere harte that is so swete,
God grante you grace well for to do;
I most walke forthe true love to seke,
Into some place where it dothe growe.
But one branche I will leve with you:
I pray Jesu ye may it well kepe,
For hereafter ye shall knowe
Where kinde cannot go, it will crepe.
Wherfore as many times I grete you
As clarkes can write with paper and inke,
And as monye mo as gresses grewe,
Or tonge can tell, or harte can thinke.
No more I write to you at this time,
But wherever ye be, on lande or water,
Cristes dere blessing and mine
I sende you in greeting of this letter.
And made man above all thing,
Save my true-love, bothe day and night,
And kepe her well and in good liking.
For she is alwey full curteisse,
True and stedfast in every degree,
Swete as the rose that groeth on the risse,
As true turtill that sittes on a tree.
She is the demurest that I can see
Wheras I walke by est and weste;
No peere she hase in my eye,
For of all women I love her beste.
Her lippes are like unto cherye,
With teethe as white as whales bone;
Her browes bente as any can be,
With eyes clere as cristal stoune.
Her fingers be bothe large and longe,
With pappes rounde as any ball;
Nothing, methinke, on her is wronge;
Her medill is bothe gaunte and small.
She hathe my harte and ever shall,
And never to change her for no newe,
But for to love her terrestreall,
And whiles I live to her be true.
For I have gone throughe Englond on every side,
Brettin, Flanders, with many an oder place,
Yet founde I never non in these ways wide
Suche one as she is to my purpasse.
Wherfore I love her without let,
And for no thing I can cease;
So ferventlye on her my harte is set,
But I dare not put me in preace.
Wo be the while for my redress
Sithen I am borne to live in peine,
And thus to be lafte all comfortless,
To love and be not loved ageine.
Yet throughe governance growethe grace;
I have harde men say in towne and strete,
How fortune cumethe into many a place—
And with good fortune I trust to mete.
Adeu, dere harte that is so swete,
God grante you grace well for to do;
I most walke forthe true love to seke,
Into some place where it dothe growe.
But one branche I will leve with you:
I pray Jesu ye may it well kepe,
For hereafter ye shall knowe
Where kinde cannot go, it will crepe.
Wherfore as many times I grete you
As clarkes can write with paper and inke,
And as monye mo as gresses grewe,
Or tonge can tell, or harte can thinke.
No more I write to you at this time,
But wherever ye be, on lande or water,
Cristes dere blessing and mine
I sende you in greeting of this letter.
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