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

Worschippe ye that loveris bene this May,
For of your blisse the Kalendis are begonne,
And sing with us, Away, Winter, away!
  Cum, Somer, cum, the suete sesoùn and sonne!
  Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne,
    And amorously lift up...

Robin sat on gude green hill,
  Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
  'Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
  Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
  Doutless but dreid I de.'...

This hinder yeir I hard be tald
  Thair was a worthy King;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,
  He had at his bidding.
The Lord was ancean and ald,
  And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter fair to fald,
  A lusty Lady ying....

Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
    Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,
    And everie vertew that is wenit dear,
Except onlie that ye are mercyless

Into your garth this day I did persew;

London, thou art of townes A per se.
  Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;
  Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
  Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;...

Rorate coeli desuper!
  Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!
For now is risen the bricht day-ster,
  Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:
  The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris,
Surmounting Phebus in the Est,
  Is cumin of his hevinly...

I THAT in heill was and gladnèss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:—
    Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee...

With margerain gentle,
  The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
  Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
  Ye be, as I divine,
The pretty primrose,
  The goodly columbine.

Benign, courteous, and meek,...

Poet: John Skelton

Merry Margaret
  As midsummer flower,
  Gentle as falcon
  Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
    So joyously,
    So maidenly,
    So womanly...

Poet: John Skelton