<< Sprang up the sote grene gras, 1425 As fair, as thikke, as mister was. But muche amended it the place, That therthe was of swich a grace That it of floures had plente, That both in somer and winter be. 1430 Ther sprang the violete al newe, And fresshe pervinke, riche of hewe, And floures yelowe, whyte, and rede; Swich plentee grew ther never in mede. Ful gay was al the ground, and queynt, 1435 And poudred, as men had it peynt, With many a fresh and sondry flour, That casten up ful good savour. I wol not longe holde you in fable Of al this gardin delitable. 1440 I moot my tonge stinten nede, For I ne may, withouten drede, Naught tellen you the beautee al, Ne half the bountee therewithal. I wente on right honde and on left 1445 Aboute the place; it was not left, Til I hadde al the [yerde in] been, In the estres that men mighte seen. >> Mès moult embelissoit l'afaire Li leus qui ere de tel aire, Qu'il i avoit tous jours plenté De flors et yver et esté. 1410 Violete y avoit trop bele, Et parvenche fresche et novele; Flors y ot blanches et vermeilles, De jaunes en i ot merveilles. Trop par estoit la terre cointe, Qu'ele ere piolée et pointe De flors de diverses colors, Dont moult sunt bonnes les odors. Ne vous tenrai jà longue fable Du leu plesant et délitable; 1420 Orendroit m'en convenra taire, Que ge ne porroie retraire Du vergier toute la biauté, Ne la grant délitableté. Tant fui à destre et à senestre, Que j'oi tout l'afere et tout l'estre Du vergier cerchié et véu; Et li Diex d'Amors m'a séu << And thus whyle I wente in my pley, The God of Love me folowed ay, 1450 Right as an hunter can abyde The beste, til he seeth his tyde To shete, at good mes, to the dere, Whan that him nedeth go no nere. And so befil, I rested me 1455 Besyde a welle, under a tree, Which tree in Fraunce men calle a pyn. But, sith the tyme of king Pepyn, Ne grew ther tree in mannes sighte So fair, ne so wel woxe in highte; 1460 In al that yerde so high was noon. And springing in a marble-stoon Had nature set, the sothe to telle, Under that pyn-tree a welle. And on the border, al withoute, 1465 Was writen, in the stone aboute, Lettres smale, that seyden thus, Here starf the faire Narcisus.' NARCISUS was a bachelere, NARCISUS. That Love had caught in his daungere, 1470 And in his net gan him so streyne, And dide him so to wepe and pleyne, That nede him muste his lyf forgo. For a fair lady, hight Echo,