I Am Not The Rose, But I

For Oute Of Olde Feldys, As Men Sey, Comyth Al This Newe Corn From Yer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokis, In Good Fey, Comyth Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

Of Alle The Floures In The Mede, Than Love I Most These Floures Whyte And Rede, Swiche As Men Callen Daysies In Our Toun. . . . . Til That Myn Herte Dye. . . . . That Wel By Reson Men Hit Calle May The 'dayesye' Or Elles The 'ye Of Day,' The Emperice And Flour Of Floures Alle. I Pray To God That Faire Mot She Falle, And Alle That Loven Floures, For Hir Sake!

Thus With Hir Fader For A Certeyn Space Dwelleth This Flour Of Wyfly Pacience, That Neither By Hir Wordes Ne Hir Face Biforn The Folk, Ne Eek In Her Absence, Ne Shewed She That Hir Was Doon Offence.

Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire Yreken.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.