<< And than bicometh the ground so proud That it wol have a newe shroud, And maketh so queynt his robe and fayr 65 That it hath hewes an hundred payr Of gras and floures, inde and pers, And many hewes ful dyvers: That is the robe I mene, y-wis, Through which the ground to preisen is. 70 The briddes, that han left hir song, Whyl they han suffred cold so strong In wedres grille, and derk to sighte, Ben in May, for the sonne brighte, So glade, that they shewe in singing, 75 That in hir herte is swich lyking, That they mote singen and be light. Than doth the nightingale hir might To make noyse, and singen blythe. Than is blisful, many a sythe, 80 The chelaundre and the papingay. Than yonge folk entenden ay For to ben gay and amorous, The tyme is than so savorous. Hard is his herte that loveth nought 85 In May, whan al this mirth is wrought; >> Lors devient la terre si gobe, Qu'ele volt avoir novele robe; 60 Si scet si cointe robe faire, Que de colors i a cent paire, D'erbes, de flors indes et perses, Et de maintes colors diverses. C'est la robe que ge devise, Por quoi la terre miex se prise. Li oisel, qui se sunt téu Tant cum il ont le froit éu, Et le tens divers et frarin, Sunt en Mai, por le tens serin, 70 Si lié qu'il monstrent en chantant Qu'en lor cuer a de joie tant, Qu'il lor estuet chanter par force. Li rossignos lores s'efforce De chanter et de faire noise; Lors s'esvertue, et lors s'envoise Li papegaus et la kalandre: Lors estuet jones gens entendre A estre gais et amoreus Por le tens bel et doucereus. 80 Moult a dur cuer qui en Mai n'aime, << Whan he may on these braunches here The smale briddes singen clere Hir blisful swete song pitous; And in this sesoun delytous, 90 Whan love affrayeth alle thing, Me thoughte a-night, in my sleping, Right in my bed, ful redily, That it was by the morowe erly, And up I roos, and gan me clothe; 95 Anoon I wissh myn hondes bothe; A sylvre nedle forth I drogh Out of an aguiler queynt y-nogh, And gan this nedle threde anon; For out of toun me list to gon 100 The sowne of briddes for to here, That on thise busshes singen clere. And in the swete sesoun that leef is, With a threde basting my slevis, Aloon I wente in my playing, 105 The smale foules song harkning; That peyned hem ful many a payre To singe on bowes blosmed fayre. Iolif and gay, ful of gladnesse,