O thoughtful hearté, plunged in distress
With slumber of sloth this hugé winter night,
Out of the sleep of mortal heaviness
Awake again and look upon the light
Of thilké star that with her beamés bright
And with the shining of her shenés merrie,
Is wont to gladden all our hemispheré.
. . . . .
This star in beauty passeth Pleiades
Both of sky risyng and of shenés clear,
Bootes, Arcturus, and als Iades,
And Esperus whanné it doth appear:
For this is Spica with her brighté spear
That toward eve, at midnight and at morrow,
Down from the heaven adaweth all our sorrow
And dryeth up the bitter tearés wete
Of Aurorá after the morrow gray
That she in weeping doth on flowers flete,
In lusty April and in freshé May,
And cometh Phoebus the bright sunnés day
With his wain gold-yborned bright and fair,
To enchace the mystés of our cloudy air.
From: http://www.luminarium.org/medlit/ourlady.htm
Date: 1420-1422?
By: John Lydgate (c1370-c1451)