| 50 | In May, that moder is of monthes glade, |
| That fresshe floures, blew, and whyte, and rede, |
| Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made, |
| And ful of bawme is fleting every mede; |
| Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede |
| 55 | Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde |
| As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde, |
| That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche, |
| Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene, |
| That, koude he never so wel of loving preche, |
| 60 | It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene; |
| So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene |
| In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente, |
| And made, er it was day, ful many a wente. |
| The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay, |
| 65 | Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge, |
| Why she forshapen was; and ever lay |
| Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe, |
| Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe |
| How Tereus gan forth hir suster take, |
| 70 | That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake; |
| And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse, |
| Remembringe him his erand was to done |
| From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse; |
| And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone |
| 75 | To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone |
| Unto his neces paleys ther bi-syde; |
| Now Janus, god of entree, thou him gyde! |
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