Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, iwis:
Let Holy have the maistry,
As the manner is.

Holy stond in the hall
Faire to behold:
Ivy stond without the dore--
She is full sore acold.

Holy and his mery men
They daunsen and they sing;
Ivy and her maidenes
They wepen and they wring.

Ivy hath a kibe--
She caght it with the colde.
So mot they all have ay
That with Ivy hold.

Holy hath beris
As rede as any rose:
The foster, the hunters
Kepe hem fro the doos.

Ivy hath beris
As blake as any slo:
Ther com the owle
And ete hem as she goo.

Holy hath birdes,
A full faire flok:
The nightingale, the poppyinguy,
The gayntil laverok.

Gode Ivy, gode Ivy,
What birdes hast thou?
Non but the owlet
That creye, "How! how!'