Mirie it is, while sumer ilast,
With fugheles song.
Oc nu necheth windes blast,
And weder strong.
Ey! ey! what this night is long!
And ich, with well michel wrong,
Soregh and murne and...
Alas! deceite that in truste is nowe,
Duble as Fortune, turning as a balle,
Brotylle at assay like the roten bowe:
Who trusteth to trust is redy for to falle.
Suche gyle is in trust almost overalle
That in pointe a man no frende finde shalle:
Wherfore, beware of trust, after my devise!
Trust to thyselfe, and learn to be wise.
I shall say what inordinat love is:
The furiosite and wodness of minde,
A instinguible brenning fawting blis,
A gret hungre, insaciat to finde,
A dowcet ille, a ivell swetness blinde,
A right wonderfulle, sugred, swete errour,
Without labour rest, contrary to kinde,
Or without quiete to have huge labour.
Illustration Copyright © 1996 Word Salad Communications. All Rights Reserved.