Lord, this is an huge rayn! This were a weder for to slepen inne!

O wynd, o wynd, the weder gynneth clere.

Unknowe, unkist, and lost, that is unsought.

But the Troian gestes, as they felle, In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dite, Whoso that kan may rede hem as they write.

If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?

Nature, the vicaire of the almyghty lorde.

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake.

For out of olde feldes, as men seyth, Cometh al this newe corn fro yer to yere; 2 And out of olde bokes, in good feyth, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th’ assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge.

As round as appil was his face.