Now shrinketh, rose and lily flower,
That awhile bear such sweet savour:
In summer, that sweet tide,
There is no queen so stark and stour.
Nor lady fair so bright in bower,
That dead shall not hence glide.
She who will fleshly lust foregoe
And heavenly bliss abide,
On Jesus let her thought bestow,
That pierced was in His side.

From Peterborough on one morning
As I me wended on my ploughing,
On my folly I thought:
Lamenting I 'gan my mourning
To her that bore the heavenly king;
I mercy her besought.
“Lady, pray thy Son for us,
That us so dearly bought,
And shield us from the loathly house
That for the fiend was wrought.”


Better is her medicine
Than any mead or any wine;
Her herbes smelleth sweet.
From Caithness to Dublin
There's not a leech so fine
Our sorrows all to bete.
A man that feeleth any sore
And his folly would lete,
Withouten gold or any treasure
He may be sound and sete.

Of penance are her plasters all;
And ever serven her I shall
Now and all my life.
Now is free that ere was thrall;
All through that lady, gent and small:
Praised be her Joyes Five!
Whereso anyone sick is
Thither hie thee blithe:
Through her are soon brought to bliss
Both man and maid and wife.

Her Son that lost His life on tree
(On our sinnes may He have pity!)
Is He that ruleth Heavenly bowers.
Woman with your beauty
Think now on Godes shoures;
Though ye be white and bright of ble,
Fall shall soon thy flowers.
Jesus have mercy on me
Who all this world honours.