The besy lark, the messenger of day,
Saleweth in hire song the morwe gray;
And firy Phoebus riseth up so bright
That all the orient laugheth of the sight,
And with his stremes drieth in the greves
The silver dropes hanging on the leves,
And Arcite that is in the court real
With Theseus the squier principal,
Is risen, and loketh on the mery day.
And for to don his observance to May,
Remembring on the point of his desire
He on his courser, sterting as the fire,
Is ridden to the feldes him to play,
Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.
And to the grove of which that I you told,
By aventure his way he 'gan to hold,
To maken him a gerlond of the greves,
Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leves,
And loud he song agen the sonne shene.
O May, with all thy floures and thy grene,
Right welcome be thou faire freshe May,
I hope that I some grene here getten may.