Classic Poem

A waile whit ase whalles bon,
A grein in golde that godly shon,
A tortle that mine herte is on
In townes, trewe.
Hire gladshipe nes never gon
Whil I may glewe.

When he is glad
Of all this world namore I bad
Then be with hire mine one bistad
Withoute strif.
The care that ich am in ibrad
I wite a wif.

A wif nis non so worly wroght
When he is blithe to bedde ibroght.
Well were him that wiste hire thoght,
That thriven and thro.
Well I wot he nul me noght:
Mine herte is wo.

How shall that lefly sing
That thus is marred in mourning?
He me wol to dethe bring
Longe er my day.
Gret hire well, that swete thing
With eyen gray.

Hire eye haveth wounded me, iwisse,
Hire bente browen that bringeth blisse;
Hire comely mouth, that mighte kisse,
In muche murthe he were.
I wolde chaunge mine for his
That is here fere.

Wolde hire fere be so free,
And wurthes were that so mighte be,
All for on I wolde yeve three
Withoute chep.
From helle to Hevene and sonne to see
Nis non so yeep,
Ne half so free:
Whose wole of love be trewe do listne me.

Herkneth me, I ou telle.
In such wondring for wo I welle;
Nis no fur so hot in helle
All to mon
That loveth derne and dar nout telle
Whet him is on.

Ich unne hire well and he me wo,
Ich am hire frend and he my fo:
Me thuncheth mine herte wol breke atwo
For sorewe and sike.
In Godes greting mote he go,
That waile white.

Ich wolde ich were a threstelcok,
A bounting other a lavercok,
Swete brid.
Betwene hire kurtle and hire smok
I wolde ben hid.