And fast I slept; and in slepyng,
Me mette suche a swevenyng,
That lykede me wonderous wele ;
But in that sweven is never a dele
That it nys afterwarde befalle,
Ryght as this dreme wol tel us alle.
Now this dreme wol I ryme aryghte,
To make your hertes gaye and lyghte;
For Love it prayeth, and also
Commaundeth me that it be so.
And yf there any aske me,
Whether that it be he or she,
How this boke which is here
Shal hatte, that I rede you here;
It is the Romaunce of the Rose,
In which alle the art of love I close.
The mater fayre is of to make ;
God graunt me in gre that she it take
For whom that it begonnen is!
And that is she that hath, ywys,
So mochel pris; and therto she
So worthy is biloved to be,
That she wel ought of pris and ryght
Be cleped Rose of every wight.
That it was May me thoughte tho,
It is .v. yere or more ago;
That it was May, thus dremede me,
In tyme of love and jolité,
That al thing gynneth waxen gay,
For ther is neither busk nor hay
In May, that it nyl shrouded bene,
And it with newe leves wrene.
These wodes eek recoveren grene,