Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde, map of the world
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, tyne/tub (for brewing)
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twine semy/thin, tiny?
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
“Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.”
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne never a pike so immersed in sauce
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde, refreyde/grow cold
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce. affounde/go numb
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde, lyst/like
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343-1400 – from Medieval English Lyrics
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