He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

That, of al the floures in the mede, Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede, Swiche as men callen daysyes in our toun.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

O moral Gower, this book I directe To the.

Go, litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye. 7

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with youre age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.

Ek gret effect men write in place lite; Th’ entente is al, and nat the lettres space.

Ye, fare wel al the snow of ferne yere! 6

This sodeyn Diomede.