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 live 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.