Classic Poem

In May it muryeth when it dawes
In dounes with this dueres plawes,
And lef is light on linde;
Blosmes bredeth on the bowes,
All this wilde wightes wowes,
So well ich underfinde.

I not non so freoly flour
As ledies that beth bright in bour,
With love who mighte hem binde;
So worly wimmen are by west;
One of hem ich herie best
From Irlond into Inde.

Wimmen were the beste thing
That shup oure heye hevene king,
If feole false nere;
Heo beoth too rad upon here red
To love ther me hem lastes bed
When heo shule fenge fere.

Lut in londe are to leve,
Thagh me hem trewe trouthe geve,
For tricherie to yere;
When trichour hath his trouthe iplight,
Biswiken he hath that swete wight,
Thagh he hire othes swere.

Wimmon, war thee with the swike,
That feir and freoly is to fike;
His fare is o to founde;
So wide in world is here won,
In uch a toune untrewe is on
From Leicestre to Lounde.

Of treuthe nis the trichour noght,
Bote he habbe his wille iwroght
At stevening umbe stounde;
Ah, feire levedis, be on war,
Too late cometh the yeynchar
When love you hath ibounde.

Wimmen bueth so feir on hewe,
Ne trow I none that nere trewe,
If trichour hem ne taghte;
Ah, feire thinges, freoly bore,
When me you woweth, beth war bifore
Whuch is worldes ahte.

All too late is send ageyn
When the ledy lith bileyn
And liveth by that he laghte;
Ah, wolde lilie-leor in lin
There levely lores min,
With selthe we weren saghte.