A dream befell the author
’Twas in my twentieth year of age,
When Love doth all young hearts engage
To pay him toll, that on my bed
I lay one night, as custom led.
Asleep, when o’er my spirit fell
A wondrous pleasant dream that well
Delighted me, and nought therein
I saw but what did later win 30
Fulfilment, and I now in rhyme
Set forth the tale, to while your time
And glad young hearts, by Love’s command.
And should or swain or maid demand
How that is called which now I write,
I answer “The Romance” it hight,
For lovers written, “of the Rose,”
Which doth Love’s gentle art enclose.
Good is the matter, fair and true,
God grant that grace it find in view 40
Of her for whose behoof ’twas writ;
Worthy of love is she, and fit,
Before all other maids I swear.
The fragrant name of Rose to bear.
Five years have rolled their suns away.
Since in the amorous month of May
I dreamed this dream: O month of joy
That knows all nature to decoy
To mirth and pleasure; bush and brake
Alike their fresh spring raiment take 50
Of leaves that long in swaddlings lay
Close shrouded from the light of day.
While woods and thickets don their green
Rich mantling of resplendent sheen.
