Volume 107 — A YULE GRETYNGE.

For yow and for noon other, ladye dere, At this ful jolyf sesoun of the yeer Now wol I truste, ne thynkynge naught of cost, This litel yefte to yon rede pilere post; Ryghte wel ystampen sikerly, I trowe, Anon myn yefte schal come to noon but yow. Ne golde han I to yeve, ne pretious gere, But floures that ben ful rare (this tyme of yeer). Ne yelwe astere, late ycome to toun, Ne yet (God wot) a grene carnacioun, But tak al fressche from Convent Gardyn plot Myn flour, and eek prayere, "Foryete-me-not." With feste and merie chere and moche solas Sone wol this jolyf sesoun yeve us grace; So mote ye spende, whanne that bels swete chyme At yule, in sothe a veray parfait tyme. "At Cristemasse merie may ye dance," And in the Newe Yeer han gret plesance: So fare now wel, myn hertes queene; I praie R.S.V.P.—Ther nys no more to saye!