When sere leaf falleth
            from the high forkéd tips,
And cold appalleth
            dry osier, haws and hips,
Coppice he strips
            of birds, that now none calleth.
Fordel my lips
            in love have, though he galleth.

Though all things freeze here,
            I can naught feel the cold,
For new love sees, here
            my heart’s new leaf unforld;
So am I rolled
            and lapped against the breeze here:
Love, who doth mould
            my force, force guarantees here.

Aye, life’s a high thing,
            where joy’s his maintenance,
Who cries ‘tis wry thing
             hath danced never my dance,
I can advance
             no blame against fate’s tithing
For lot and chance
             have deemed the best thing my thing.

Of love’s wayfaring
             I know no part to blame,
All other pairing,
             compared, is put to shame,
Man can acclaim
             no second for comparing
With her, no dame
             but hath the meaner bearing.
I’ld ne’er entangle
             my heart with other fere,
Although I mangle
             my joy by staying here
I have no fear
             that ever at Pontrangle
You’ll find her peer
             or one that’s worth a wrangle.

She’d ne’er destroy
             her man with cruelty,
‘Twixt here ‘n’ Savoy
             there feeds no fairer she,
Than pleaseth me
             till Paris had ne’er joy
In such degree
             from Helena in Troy.

She’s so the rarest
             who holdeth me thus gay,
The thirty fairest
             can not contest her sway;
‘Tis right, par fay,
             thou know, O song that wearest
Such bright array,
             whose quality thou sharest.

Chançon, nor stay
             till to her thou declarest:
“Arnaut would say
             me not, wert thou not fairest.’