“Whanne I hadde smelled the savour swote,
No will hadde fro thens yit goo,
Bot somdell neer it wente I thoo,
To take it, but my hond, for drede,
Ne dorste I to the Rose bede
For thesteles sharpe, of many maneres,
Netles, thornes, and hokede breres,
For mych they distourbled me,
For sore I dradde to harmed be.
The God of Love, with bowe bent,
That all day set hadde his talent
To pursuen and to spien me,
Was stondyng by a fige-tree.
And whanne he saw hou that I
Hadde chosen so ententifly
The botoun, more unto my pay
Than ony other that I say,
He tok an arowe full sharply whet,
And in his bowe whanne it was set,
He streight up to his ere drough
The stronge bowe that was so tough,
And shet att me so wondir smerte
That thorough myn ye unto myn herte
The takel smot, and depe it wente.
And ther withall such cold me hente
That under clothes warme and softe
Sithen that day I have chevered ofte.”
-Chaucer “The Romaunt of the Rose”