Lenten Is Come with Love to Toune

Lenten ys come wiþ loue to toune,
Wiþ blosmen and wiþ briddes roune,
Þat al þis blisse bryngeþ.
Dayeseȝes in þis dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Vch foul song singeþ.
Þe þrestelcoc him þreteþ oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderoue springeþ.
Þis foules singeþ ferly fele,
Ant wlyteþ on huere wynter wele,
Þat al þe wode ryngeþ.

Þe rose rayleþ hire rode,
Þe leues on þe lyhte wode
Waxen al wiþ wille.
Þe mone mandeþ hire bleo,
Þe lilie is lossom to seo,
Þe fenyl and þe fille.
Wowes þis wilde drakes;
Miles murgeþ huere makes,
Ase strem þat strikeþ stille.
Mody meneþ, so doþ mo—
Ichot ycham on of þo,
For loue þat likes ille.

Þe mone mandeþ hire lyht;
So doþ þe semly sonne bryht,
When briddes singeþ breme.
Deawes donkeþ þe dounes;
Deores wiþ huere derne rounes,
Domes for te deme;
Wormes woweþ vnder cloude;
Wymmen waxeþ wounder proude,
So wel hit wol hem seme.
Ȝef me shal wonte wille of on,
Þis wunne weole y wole forgon,
Ant wyht in wode be fleme.