And then there's this, at the end of the poem:
>And whan this werk al broght was to an ende,
>To every foule Nature yaf his make
>By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende.
>A! lord! the blisse and Ioye that they make!
>For ech of hem gan other in winges take,
>And with hir nekkes ech gan other winde,
>Thanking alwey the noble goddesse of kinde.
>
>But first were chosen foules for to singe,
>As yeer by yere was alwey hir usaunce
>To singe a roundel at hir departinge,
>To do to Nature honour and plesaunce.
>The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce;
>The wordes wer swich as ye may heer finde,
>The nexte vers, as I now have in minde.
>
>Qui bien aime a tard oublie.
>
>`Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
>That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
>And driven awey the longe nightes blake!
>
>`Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte; --
>Thus singen smale foules for thy sake --
>Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
>That hast this wintres weders over-shake.
>
>`Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
>Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
>Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;
>Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
>That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
>And driven away the longe nightes blake.'
>
>And with the showting, whan hir song was do,
>That foules maden at hir flight a-way,
>I wook, and other bokes took me to
>To rede upon, and yet I rede alway;
>In hope, y-wis, to rede so som day
>That I shal mete som thing for to fare
>The bet; and thus to rede I nil not spare.
What's better than Chaucer,ever?
|