For trewthe telleth that loue . is triacle of hevene;
May no synne be on him sene . that useth that spise,
And alle his werkes he wrougte . with loue as him liste;
And lered it Moises for the levest thing . and moste like to heuene,
And also the plante of pees . moste precious of vertues.
For hevene myghte noughte holden it · it was so hevy of hym-self,
Tyl it hadde of the erthe . yeten his fylle,
And whan it haved of this folde . flesshe and blode taken,
Was neuere leef upon lynde . lighter ther-after,
And portatyf and persant . as the poynt of a nedle,
That myghte non armure it lette . ne none heigh walles.
For-thi is love leder . of the lordes folke of hevene,
And a mene, as the maire is . bitwene the kyng and the comune;
Right so is love a ledere . and the lawe shapeth,
Upon man for his mysdedes . the merciment he taxeth.
And for to knowe it kyndely · it comseth bi myght,
And in the herte, there is the hevede . and the heigh welle.

I make a garland here of water-flowers 
Gathered in quiet hours 
From banks that Liris hourly eats away: 
From fields that hear all day 
The plaint of Simois for boyhood dead. 
From almond-boughs o'erhead 
I pluck some mocking blossoms: and a spray 
Of euphrasy, 
That I may see on every leafless tree 
The promise of its later royalty 
Of mellow apples, or its summer dower 
Of scarlet thorn or purple Judas-flower. 
I make my garland here, and set between 
Pale poplar leaves and Pan's own parsley green 
From battle-fields where Nike has not been. 
I lift my finished wreath, but make my prayer 
Neither to Jove nor Venus: nor have care 
To plead to Juno, that my unbound hair 
The yellow veil may bear. 
But I make humble prayer 
To Pan, who gives the squirrel winter store, 
Who bids the reeds grow by the river-shore: 
That he will stand before 
My joy and grief, 
And that my withered leaf 
He gather up into his sunburned hand. 
For joy and grief and hope Pan also knew, 
And he hath care to-day for maid and man 
That Love has yet forborne to bless or ban: 
For once in fields that knew no mortal feet 
He harvested Love's wheat, in Love's own land. 
Therefore, my wreath that's pale and little sweet 
I cast before Pan's feet.