The Floure of Curtesye
In Feverier, whan the frosty moone
Was horned, ful of Phebus firy lyght,
And that she gan to reyse her streames sone,
Saynt Valentyne, upon thy blisful nyght
Of dutie whan glad is every wight,
And foules chese, to voyde her olde sorowe,
Everyche his make, upon the next morowe,
The same tyme, I herde a larke synge
Ful lustely, agayne the morowe gray:
'Awake, ye lovers, out of your slombringe,
This glad morowe, in al the haste ye may!
Some observaunce dothe unto this day,
Your choyse agen of herte to renewe,
In confyrmyng forever to be trewe.
'And ye that be, of chosyng, at your large
This lusty day, by custome of nature,
Take upon you the blisful holy charge
To serve love, whyle your lyfe may dure,
With herte, body, and al your besy cure,
Forevermore, as Venus and Cipride
For you disposeth, and the god Cupyde.
'For joye owe we playnly to obey
Unto this lordes mighty ordynaunce,
And, mercylesse, rather forto dye,
Than ever in you be founden varyaunce;
And though your lyfe be medled with grevaunce,
And, at your herte, closed be your wounde,
Beth alway one, there as ye are bounde.'
That whan I had herde and lysted longe,
With devoute herte, the lusty melodye
Of this hevenly comfortable songe,
So agreable as by ermonye,
I rose anon, and faste gan me hye
Towarde a grove, and the way take,
Foules to sene everyche chose his make.
And yet I was ful thursty in languisshyng;
Myn ague was so fervent in his hete,
Whan Aurora, for drery complaynyng,
Can distyl her chrystal teeres wete
Upon the soyle with sylver dewe so swete;
For she durste, for shame, not apere
Under the lyght of Phebus beames clere.
And so, for anguysshe of my paynes kene,
And for constraynte of my sighes sore,
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poem by John Lydgate
Added by Poetry Lover
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