When the nightegale singes,
The wodes waxen grene,
Lef and gras 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 love 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 blis thou mihtes 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.