WILL ye that I should sing Of the love of a goodly thing, Was no vilein's may？ 'Tis sung of a knight¹ so free, Under the olive tree, Singing this lay.

    Her weed was of samite fine, Her mantle² of white ermine, Green silk her hose； Her shoon with silver gay, Her sandals flowers of May, Laced small and close.

    Her belt was of fresh spring buds, Set with gold clasps and studs, Fine linen³ her shift； Her purse it was of love, Her chain was the flower thereof, And Love's gift.

    Upon a mule⁴ she rode, The selle was of brent gold, The bits of silver made； Three red rose trees there were That overshadowed her, For a sun shade.

    She riding on a day, Knights⁵ met her by the way, They did her grace； 'Fair lady, whence be ye？' 'France it is my countrie, I come of a high race.

    'My sire is the nightingale, That sings, making his wail⁶, In the wild wood, clear； The mermaid⁷ is mother to me, That sings in the salt sea, In the ocean mere⁸.'

    'Ye come of a right good race, And are born of a high place, And of high degree； Would to God that ye were Given unto me, being fair, My lady and love to be.'