Classic Poem

Most I riden by Ribbesdale,
Wilde wimmen for to wale,
And welde whuch ich wolde,
Founde were the feirest on
That ever wes mad of blod and bon,
In boure best with bolde.
Ase sonnebem hire bleo is bright;
In uche londe heo leometh light,
Thourgh tale as mon me tolde.
The lilie lossum is and long,
With riche rose and rode among;
A fildor fax to folde.

Hire hed when ich biholde upon,
The sonnebeem aboute noon
Me thoghte that I seye;
Hire eyen aren grete and gray inogh;
That lussom, when heo on me logh,
Ibend wax either breye.
The mone with hire muchele maght
Ne leneth non such light anaght
(That is in heovene heye)
Ase hire forhed doth in day,
For wham thus muchel I mourne may,
For duel to deth I dreye.

Heo hath browes bend and heh,
Whit bitwene and nout too neh;
Lussum lif heo ledes;
Hire neose is set as it well semeth;
I deye, for deth that me demeth;
Hire speche as spices spredes;
Hire lockes lefly aren and longe,
For sone he mighte hire murthes monge
With blisse when it bredes;
Hire chin is chosen and either cheke
Whit inogh and rode on, eke,
Ase roser when it redes.

Heo hath a mury mouth to mele,
With lefly rede lippes lele,
Romaunce for to rede;
Hire teth aren white ase bon of whal,
Evene set and atled all,
Ase hende mowe taken hede;
Swannes swire swithe well isette,
A sponne lengore then I mette,
That freoly is to fede.
Me were levere kepe hire come
Then beon Pope and ride in Rome,
Stithest upon stede.

When I biholde upon hire hond,
The lilie-white lef in lond
Best heo mighte beo;
Either arm an elne long,
Baloigne mengeth all bimong;
Ase baum is hire bleo;
Fingres heo hath feir to folde;
Mighte ich hire have and holde,
In world well were me.
Hire tittes aren anunder bis,
As apples two of parays,
Youself ye mowen seo.

Hire gurdel of bete gold is all,
Umben hire middel small,
That triketh to the to,
All with rubies on a rowe,
Withinne corven, craft to knowe,
And emeraudes mo;
The bocle is all of whalles bon;
Ther withinne stont a ston
That warneth men from wo;
The water that it wetes in
Iwis it wortheth all to win;
That seyen, seyden so.

Heo hath a mete middel small,
Body and brest well mad all,
Ase feines withoute fere;
Either side soft as silk,
Whittore then the moren milk,
With leofly lit on lere.
All that ich you nempne noght
It is wonder well iwroght,
And elles wonder were.
He mighte sayen that Crist him seye
That mighte nightes negh hire leye:
Hevene he hevede here.