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When the nightegale singes, The wodes waxen grene: Lef and grass and blosme springes In Averil, I wene; (And) love is to min herte gon With one spere so kene: Night and day my blod it drinkes; Min herte deth me tene. Ich have loved all this year That I may love namore; Ich have siked mony sik, Lemmon, for thin ore. Me nis love never the ner, And that me reweth sore. Swete lemmon, thench on me: Ich have loved thee yore. Swete lemmon, I preye thee Of love one speche. Whil I live in world so wide Other nulle I seche. With thy love, my swete leof, My bliss thou mightest eche: A swete cos of thy mouth Mighte be my leche. Swete lemmon, I preye thee Of a love-bene; If thou me lovest, as men says, Lemmon as I wene. And if it thy wille be, Thou loke that it be sene. So muchel I thenke upon thee That all I waxe grene. |
When the nightingale sings, And the woods wax green: I expect, the leaves and the blades of grass, And blossoms to spring up, in April; And so love has shot through my heart With a spear so honed That night and day it drinks my blood And my heart grieves. All this year I have loved The one I can love no more; I have sighed so many sighs, Sweetheart, for your favour. Love will never be any closer to me, And I rue that intensely. Sweetheart, think about me: I have loved you such a long time. Dear sweetheart, I beg you, For one word of love. As long as I live I will not seek Another throughout the entire world. With your affection, my sweet love, You could bring me joy: A sweet kiss from you lips Could cure me completely Sweetheart, I beg you, With a lover's petition, If you love me, as they say you do, Then love me as I want you to. And if it be your will, Then be sure you make it happen, For I think of you so much, That I'm growing like the spring. |
