A mayde Cristes me bit yorne
that Ich hire wurche a luve-ron,
For hwan heo myhte best ileorne
To taken onoþer soþ lefmon,
that treowest were of alle berne
And best wyte cuþe a freo wymmon.
Ich hire nule nowiht werne;
Ich hire wule teche as Ic con.

Mayde, her þu myht biholde
this worldes luve nys bute o res
And is byset so fele volde,
Vikel and frakel and wok and les.
theos þeines þat her weren bolde
Beoþ aglyden so wyndes bles;
Under molde hi liggeþ colde
And faleweþ so doþ medewe gres.

Nis no mon iboren o lyve
that her may beon studevest,
For her he haveþ seorewen ryve,
Ne tyt him never ro ne rest.
Toward his ende he hyeþ blyve
And lutle hwile he her ilest;
Pyne and deþ him wile ofdryve
Hwenne he weneþ to libben best.

Nis non so riche ne non so freo
that he ne schal heonne sone away;
Ne may hit never his waraunt beo,
Gold ne seolver, vouh ne gray.
Ne beo he no þe swift, ne may he fleo,
Ne weren his lif enne day.
thus is þes world, as þu mayht seo,
Also þe schadewe þat glyt away.

this world fareþ hwilynde,
Hwenne on cumeþ anoþer goþ;
that wes bifore nu is bihynde;
that er was leof nu hit is loþ.
Forþi he doþ as þe blynde
that in þis world his luve doþ.
Ye mowen iseo þe world aswynde
that wouh goþ forþ, abak þat soþ.

theo luve þat ne may her abyde,
thu treowest hire myd muchel wouh;
Also hwenne hit schal toglide,
Hit is fals and mereuh and frouh
And fromward in uychon tide.
Hwile hit lesteþ is seorewe inouh;
An ende, ne werie mon so syde,
He schal todreosen so lef on bouh.

Monnes luve nys buten o stunde:
Nu he luveþ, nu he is sad,
Nu he cumeþ, nu wile he funde,
Nu he is wroþ, nu he is gled.
His luve is her and ek a lunde,
Nu he luveþ sum þat he er bed;
Nis ne never treowe ifunde
that him tristeþ he is amed.

Yf mon is riche of worldes weole,
Hit makeþ his heorte smerte and ake;
If he dret þat me him stele,
thenne doþ him pyne nyhtes wake.
Him waxeþ þouhtes monye and fele
How he hit may witen wiþuten sake.
An ende hwat helpeþ hit to hele?
Al deþ hit wile from him take.

Hwer is Paris and Heleyne
that weren so bryht and feyre on bleo,
Amadas and Ideyne,
Tristram, Yseude and alle þeo,
Ector, wiþ his scharpe meyne,
And Cesar, riche of wordes feo?
Heo beoþ iglyden ut of þe reyne
So þe schef is of þe cleo.

Hit is of heom also hit nere;
Of heom me haveþ wunder itold.
Nere hit reuþe for to heren
How hi were wiþ pyne aquold,
And hwat hi þoleden alyve here?
Al is heore hot iturnd to cold
thus is þes world of false fere:
Fol he is þe on hire is bold.

theyh he were so riche mon
As Henry ure kyng,
And also veyr as Absalon
that nevede on eorþe non evenyng,
Al were sone his prute agon,
Hit nere on ende wurþ on heryng.
Mayde, if þu wilnest after leofmon
Ich teche þe enne treowe king.

A swete, if þu iknowe
the gode þewes of þisse childe:
He is feyr and bryht on heowe,
Of glede chere, of mode mylde,
Of lufsum lost, of truste treowe,
Freo of heorte, of wisdom wilde,
Ne þurhte þe never rewe,
Myhtestu do þe in his ylde.

He is ricchest mon of londe,
So wide so mon spekeþ wiþ muþ;
Alle heo beoþ to his honde,
Est and west, norþ and suþ.
Henri, king of Engelonde,
Of hym he halt and to hym buhþ.
Mayde, to þe he send his sonde
And wilneþ for to beo þe cuþ.

Ne byt he wiþ þe lond ne leode,
Vouh ne gray ne rencyan;
Naveþ he þerto none neode,
He is riche and weli man.
If þu him woldest luve beode
And bycumen his leovemon,
He brouhte þe to suche wede
that naveþ king ne kayser non.

Hwat spekestu of eny bolde
that wrouhte þe wise Salomon
Of jaspe, of saphir, of merede golde,
And of mony onoþer ston?
Hit is feyrure of feole volde
More þan Ich eu telle con;
this bold, mayde, þe is bihote
If þat þu bist his leovemon.

Hit stont uppon a treowe mote
thar hit never truke ne schal;
Ne may no mynur hire underwrote,
Ne never false þene grundwal.
tharinne is uich balewes bote,
Blisse and joye and gleo and gal;
this bold, mayde, is þe bihote
And uych o blisse þar wyþal.

ther ne may no freond fleon oþer,
Ne non furleosen his iryhte;
ther nys hate ne wreþþe nouþer,
Of prude ne of onde, of none wihte.
Alle heo schule wyþ engles pleye,
Some and sauhte in heovene lyhte.
Ne beoþ heo, mayde, in gode weye
that wel luveþ ure Dryhte?

Ne may no mon hine iseo,
Also he is in his mihte,
that may wiþuten blisse beo
Hwanne he isihþ ure Drihte.
His sihte is al joye and gleo,
He is day wyþute nyhte.
Nere he, mayde, ful seoly
that myhte wunye myd such a knyhte?

He haveþ bitauht þe o tresur
that is betere þan gold oþer pel,
And bit þe luke þine bur,
And wilneþ þat þu hit wyte wel
Wyþ þeoves, wiþ reveres, wiþ lechurs.
thu most beo waker and snel;
thu art swetture þane eny flur
Hwile þu witest þene kastel.

Hit is ymston of feor iboren,
Nys non betere under heovene grunde,
He is tofore alle oþre icoren,
He heleþ alle luve wunde.
Wel were alyve iboren
that myhte wyten þis ilke stunde;
For habbe þu hine enes forloren,
Ne byþ he never eft ifunde.

this ilke ston þat Ich þe nemne
Maydenhod icleoped is.
Hit is o derewurþe gemme,
Of alle oþre he berþ þat pris,
And bryngeþ þe wiþute wemme
Into þe blysse of Paradis
the hwile þu hyne witest under þine hemme,
thu ert swetture þan eny spis.

Hwat spekstu of eny stone
that beoþ in vertu oþer in grace:
Of amatiste, of calcydone,
Of lectorie and tupace,
Of jaspe, of saphir, of sardone,
Smaragde, beril and crisopace?
Among alle oþre vmstone,
thes beoþ deorre in uyche place.

Mayde, also Ich þe tolde,
the vmston of þi bur
He is betere an hundredfolde
than alle þeos in heore culur.
He is idon in heovene golde
And is ful of fyn amur.
Alle þat myhte hine wite scholde,
He schyneþ so bryht in heovene bur.

Hwen þu me dost in þine rede
For þe to cheose a leofmon,
Ich wile don as þu me bede,
the beste þat Ich fynde con.
Ne doþ he, mayde, on uvele dede,
that may cheose of two þat on,
And he wile wiþute neode
Take þet wurse, þe betere let gon?

this rym, mayde, Ich þe sende,
Open and wiþute sel,
Bidde lc þat þu hit untrende
And leorny bute bok uych del
Herof þat þu beo swiþe hende
And tech hit oþer maydenes wel.
Hwoso cuþe hit to þan ende,
Hit wolde him stonde muchel stel.

Hwenne þu sittest in longynge,
Draun þe forþ þis ilke wryt;
Mid swete stephne þu hit singe,
And do also hit þe byt.
To þe he haveþ send one gretynge;
God almyhti þe beo myd,
And leve cumen to his brudþinge
Heye in heovene þer he sit.

And yeve him god endynge,
that haveth iwryten þis ilke wryt. Amen.