At last, the golden orientall gate Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre, And Phœbus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate, Came dauncing forth, shaking his dewie hayre; And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy ayre.
For which he wex a litel red for shame, Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen, That to beholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen, And let so softe it in her herte sinke That to herself she seyde, “Who yaf me drinke?”Geoffrey Chaucer
Or as an ook comth of a litel spir, So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente, Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.Geoffrey Chaucer
Nym gogaun guarvy. nym goffvy gorterch. Ac igueith aryw derit. oet eur. wy gorthorch. Kin buyf. aelav hetiv gan eiliv eleirch.