The Parlement of Fowls

By Geoffrey Chaucer

    Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne soft{.e},

    That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e},

    And driven away the long{.e} nyght{.e}s blak{.e}!

    Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,

    Thus syngen smal{.e} foul{.e}s for thy sak{.e}:

      Now welcome, somer, with thy sonn{.e} soft{.e},

      That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e}.

    Wel han they caus{.e} for to gladen oft{.e},

    Sith ech of hem recover{.e}d hath hys mak{.e};

  Ful blissful mowe they syng{.e} when they wak{.e}:

      Now welcome, somer, with thy sonn{.e} soft{.e}

      That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e}

      And driven away the long{.e} nyght{.e}s blak{.e}!