Go, litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye, Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye, So sende myght to make in som comedye!
And therewith kest I doun myn eye ageyne,Quhare as I sawe, walking under the tour,Full secretly new cummyn hir to pleyne,The fairest or the freschest yonge floureThat ever I sawe, me thoght, before that houre,For quhich sodayn abate anon astertThe blude of all my body to my hert.james i of scotland
The cristall water ran so clere and cold,That in myn ere maid contynualyA maner soun, mellit with armony,That full of lytill fischis by the brymNow here now there with bakkis blewe as ledeLap and playit, and in a rout can swymSo prattily, and dressit tham to spredeThair curall fynnis as the ruby rede,That in the sonne on thair scalis bryghtAs gesserant ay glitterit in my sight.james i of scotland
And as for me, though than I konne but lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon. That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But yt be seldome on the holy day. Save, certeynly, when that the monthe of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farwel my boke, and my devocion.Geoffrey Chaucer