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Lenten ys come with loue to toune
London, British Library, Harley MS 2253, f. 71va



Lenten ys come with loue to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth.
Dayeseyes in this dales,


Spring has arrived, with love,
With flowers, and with birdsong,
Bringing all this joy.
Daisies in the valleys,

Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Vch foul song singeth.
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huere wynter wo
When woderoue springeth.
The sweet notes of nightingales,
Every bird sings a song.
The thrush is constantly wrangling;
Their winter misery is gone
When the woodruff flowers.
10  This foules singeth ferly fele
Ant wlyteth on huere [wynne] wele
That al the wode ryngeth.

The rose rayleth hire rode;
The leues on the lyhte wode

These birds sing in great numbers,
And chirp about their wealth of joys,
So that all the wood rings.

The rose begins to blush;
The leaves in the light-green wood

15  Waxen al with wille.
The mone mandeth hire bleo;
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyle ant the fille.
Wowes this wilde drakes,
All unfurl gladly.
The moon sends out its light;
The lily is lovely to see,
The fennel and the wild thyme.
The wild ducks are courting,
20 Miles murgeth huere makes
Ase strem that striketh stille.
Mody meneth, so doth mo;
Ichot Ycham on of tho
For loue that likes ille.


Animals cajole their mates
Like a quietly-flowing stream.
Many men of spirit complain;
I know that I'm one of them
Because I'm crossed in love.


25  The mone mandeth hire lyht,
So doth the semly sonne bryht,
When briddes singeth breme.
Deawes donketh the dounes;
Deores with huere derne rounes,
The moon sends out her light,
So does the bright, beautiful sun,
When birds sing gloriously.
Dews drench the hills;
Animals murmur secretly,
30 Domes forte deme.
Wormes woweth vnder cloude;
Wymmen waxeth wounder proude,
So wel hit wol hem seme.
Yef me shal wonte wille of on,
Passing their own judgements.
Worms make love underground;
Women put on amazing airs,
it suits them so well to do it.
If I don't have my will of one,
35 This wunne weole Y wole forgon,
Ant wyht in wode be fleme.


I'll give up all this wealth of joys,
And flee straight to the woods.

Set up by Bella Millett, enm@soton.ac.uk. Last updated 01 February 2004 .