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.
O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up-groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke God that after his image Yow made, and thynketh al nis but a faire This world, that passeth sone as floures faire.Geoffrey Chaucer
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swych licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye (So priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.Geoffrey Chaucer
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