"Blessed beo thu, lavedi, Ful of hovene blisse; Swete flur of parais, Moder of milternisse.... I-blessed beo thu, Lavedi, So fair and so briht; Al min hope is uppon the, Bi day and bi nicht.... Bricht and scene quen of storre, So me liht and lere. In this false fikele world, So me led and steore."[136] There is but a short and easy step between this tender worship of the Virgin and the sentiments of the court of love. The English rhymesters take it; and when they wish to praise their earthly mistresses, they borrow, here as elsewhere, the ideas and the very form of French verse. One compares his lady to all kinds of precious stones and flowers; others sing truly amorous songs, at times sensual. "Bytuene Mershe and Aueril, When spray biginneth to springe. The lutel foul hath hire wyl On hyre lud to synge, Ich libbe in loue longinge For semlokest of alle thynge. He may me blysse bringe, Icham in hire baundoun. An hendy hap ich abbe yhent, Ichot from heuene it is me sent. From alle wymmen my love is lent, And lyht on Alisoun."[137] Another sings: "Suete lemmon, y preye the, of loue one speche, Whil y lyue in world so wyde other nulle y seche. With thy loue, my suete leof, mi bliss thou mihtes eche A suete cos of thy mouth mihte be my leche."[138] Is not this the lively and warm imagination of the south? they speak of springtime and of love, "the fine and lovely weather" like _trouvères_, even like _troubadours._ The dirty, smoke-grimed cottage, the black feudal castle, where all but the master lie higgledy-piggledy on the straw in the great stone hall, the cold rain, the muddy earth, make the return of the sun and the warm air delicious. "Sumer is i-cumen in, Lhude sing cuccu: Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springeth the wde nu. Sing cuccu, cuccu. Awe bleteth after lomb, Llouth after calue cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth: Murie sing cuccu, Cuccu, cuccu. Wel singes thu cuccu; Ne swik thu nauer nu. Sing, cuccu nu, Sing, cuccu."[139] Here are glowing pictures, such as Guillaume de Lorris was writing at the same time, even richer and more lifelike, perhaps because the poet found here for inspiration that love of country life which in England is deep and national. Others, more imitative, attempt pleasantries like those of Rutebeuf and the fabliaux, frank quips,[140] and even satirical, loose waggeries. Their true aim and end is to hit out at the monks. In every French country or country which imitates France, the most manifest use of convents is to furnish material for sprightly and scandalous stories. One writes, for instance, of the kind of life the monks lead at the abbey of Cocagne: