The little pretty nightingale

The little pretty nightingale
Among the leavés green,
I would I were with her all night.
But yet ye wot not whom I mean.

The nightingale sat on a brere
Among the thornés sharp and keen,
And comfort me with merry cheer.
But yet ye wot not whom I mean.

She did appear all on her kind
A lady right well to be seen;
With words of love told me her mind.
But yet ye wot not whom I mean.

It did me good upon her to look;
Her corse was closéd all in green;
Away fro me her heart she took.
But yet ye wot not whom I mean.

‘Lady,’ I cried with rueful moan,
‘Have mind of me that true hath been;
For I love none but you alone.’
But yet ye wot not whom I mean.