This I saw some yesterday,
How a pilgrim on his way—
Limousin his land was—lay
Fevered on a bed within.
Grievous had his sickness been,
Great the fever he was in.
By his bedside Nicolette
Passing, lifted skirts and let—
'Neath the pretty ermine frock,
'Neath the snowy linen smock—
Just a dainty ankle show.
Lo, the sick was healed, and lo,
Found him whole as ne'er before.
From his bed he rose once more,
And to his own land did flit,
Safe and sound, whole ever whit.
Flow'r o' the lily, Nicolette!
Coming, going, ever pleasing,
In thy talk and in thy teasing,
In thy jest and in thy joying,
In thy kisses, in thy coying!
There is none could hate thee, dear!
Yet for thy sake am I here,
In this dungeon hid from day.
Where I cry Ah, well-a-way!
Now to die behoveth me,
Sweet friend, for thee!"
