When The Nightingale Sings is a Middle English poem, author unknown, recorded in the British Library's Harley 2253 manuscript, verse 25. It is a love poem, extolling the beauty and lost love of an unknown maiden.
When þe nyhtegale singes þe wodes waxen grene.<br /> Lef ant gras ant blosme springes in aueryl y wene,<br /> Ant love is to myn herte gon wiþ one spere so kene<br /> Nyht ant day my blod hit drynkes myn herte deþ me tene.
Ich have loved al þis er þat y may love namore,<br /> Ich have siked moni syk lemmon for þin ore.<br /> Me nis love never þe ner ant þat me reweþ sore.<br /> Suete lemmon þench on meâÂÂich have loved þe ore.
Suete lemmon y preye þe of love one speche,<br /> Whil y lyve in world so wyde oþer nulle y seche.<br /> Wiþ þy love my suete leof mi blis þou mihtes eche,<br /> A suete cos of þy mouþ mihte be my leche.
Suete lemmon y preÃÂe þe of a love bene<br /> ÃÂef þou me lovest ase men says lemmon as y wene,<br /> Ant ÃÂef hit þi wille be þou loke þat hit be sene,<br /> So muchel y þenke upon þe þat al y waxe grene.
Bituene Lyncolne ant Lyndeseye, Norhamptoun ant Lounde,<br /> Ne wot y non so fayr a may as y go fore ybounde.<br /> Suete lemmon ypreÃÂe þe þou lovie me a stounde!<br /> Y wole mone my song<br /> On wham þat hit ys on ylong.
When the nightingale sings,<br /> The trees grow green,<br /> Leaf and grass and blossom springs,<br /> In April, I suppose;<br /> And love has to my heart gone<br /> With a spear so keen,<br /> Night and day my blood it drains<br /> My heart to death it aches.
I have loved all this past year<br /> So that I may love no more;<br /> I have sighed many a sigh,<br /> Beloved, for thy pity,<br /> My love is never thee nearer,<br /> And that me grieveth sore;<br /> Sweet loved-one, think on me,<br /> I have loved thee long.
Sweet loved-one, I pray thee,<br /> For one loving speech;<br /> While I live in this wide world<br /> None other will I seek.<br /> With thy love, my sweet beloved,<br /> My bliss though mightest increase;<br /> A sweet kiss of thy mouth<br /> Might be my cure.
Sweet beloved, I pray thee<br /> For a love token:<br /> If thou lovest me, as men do say,<br /> Beloved, as I think,<br /> And if it be thy will,<br /> Make sure that others see;<br /> So much I think upon thee<br /> That I do grow all pale.
Between Lincoln and Lindsey,<br /> Northampton and London,<br /> I know no maiden so fair<br /> As the one I'm in bondage to.<br /> Sweet loved-one, I pray thee<br /> Thou love me for a while;<br /> I will moan my song<br /> To the one on whom it is based.