Sumer is icumen in,
  Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
  And springth the wude nu—
          Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteth after lomb,
  Lhouth after calve cu;
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
  Murie sing cuccu!...

Bytuene Mershe ant Averil
  When spray biginneth to spring,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
  On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
  Icham in hire bandoun.
An...

Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
  That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
  Vch foul song singeth;
The threstlecoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere...

Ichot a burde in boure bryht,
That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht;
  Feir ant fre to fonde;
In al this wurhliche won
A burde of blod ant of bon
Never yete y nuste non
  Lussomore in londe.
    Blou northerne...

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
  When hit cometh in my thoht
  Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon...

Of on that is so fayr and bright
        Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
        Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
        Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee...

Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
    In al this word ne knowe I non.

The Aungil came fro hevene tour,
To grete Marye with gret honour,
And seyde sche xuld bere the flour...

No thyng ys to man so dere
As wommanys love in gode manere.
A gode womman is mannys blys,
There her love right and stedfast ys.
There ys no solas under hevene
Of alle that a man may nevene
That shulde a man so moche glew
As a gode...

A! Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mays man to haiff liking;
Fredome all solace to man giffis,
He levys at ese that frely levys!
A noble hart may haiff nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking
...

Poet: John Barbour

O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This...