In a dun-walled marble cell.

     There he waileth in his woe

     Crying thus as ye shall know.

     “Nicolete, thou lily white,

     My sweet lady, bright of brow,

     Sweeter than the grape art thou,

     Sweeter than sack posset good

     In a cup of maple wood!

     Was it not but yesterday

     That a palmer came this way,

     Out of Limousin came he,

     And at ease he might not be,

     For a passion him possessed

     That upon his bed he lay,

     Lay, and tossed, and knew not rest

     In his pain discomforted.

     But thou camest by the bed,

     Where he tossed amid his pain,

     Holding high thy sweeping train,

     And thy kirtle of ermine,

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