Geoffrey Chaucer

“ Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe, Farwel my book and my devocioun! ”

“ She is the clerness and the verray light, That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledeth, The herte in-with my sorowful brest yow dredeth, And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly The maistresse of my wit, and nothing I. My word, my werk, is knit so in your bonde, 90That, as an harpe obeyeth to the honde And maketh hit soune after his fingeringe, Right so mowe ye out of myn herte bringe Swich vois, right as yow list, to laughte or pleyne. ”

“ And, leninge on myn elbowe and my syde, 180The longe day I shoop me for to abyde For nothing elles, and I shal nat lye, But for to loke upon the dayesye, That wel by reson men hit calle may The "dayesye" or elles the "ye of day", The emperice and flour of floures alle. I pray to god that faire mot she falle, And alle that loven floures, for hir sake! ”