Marcus Creed - RIAS-Kammerchor - Britten - Sacred and Profane, Op.91 - 3. Lenten is come
текст песни

Lenten is come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with briddes roune,
That all this blisse bringeth.
Dayeseyes in this dales,
Notes swete of nightegales,
Uch fowl song singeth.
The threstelcok him threteth oo.
Away is huere winter wo
When woderofe springeth.
This fowles singeth ferly fele,
And wliteth on huere wynne wele,
That all the wode ringeth.

The rose raileth hire rode,
The leves on the lighte wode
Waxen all with wille.
The mone mandeth hire ble,
The lilye is lossom to se,
The fennel and the fille.
Wowes this wilde drakes,
Miles murgeth huere makes,
Ase strem that striketh stille.
Mody meneth, so doth mo;
Ichot ich am on of tho
For love that likes ille.

The mone mandeth hire light,
So doth the semly sonne bright,
When briddes singeth breme.
Deawes donketh the dounes,
Deores with huere derne rounes
Domes for to deme.
Wormes woweth under cloude,
Wimmen waxeth wounder proude,
So well it wol hem seme.
Yef me shall wonte wille of on,
This wunne wele I wole forgon,
And wiht in wode be fleme.
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Spring has come with love among us,
With flowers and with the song of birds,
That brings all this happiness.
Daisies in these valleys,
The sweet notes of nightingales,
Each bird sings a song.
The thrush wrangles all the time.
Gone is their winter woe
When the woodruff springs.
These birds sing, wonderfully merry,
And warble in their abounding joy,
So that all the wood rings.

The rose puts on her rosy face,
The leaves in the bright wood
All grow with pleasure.
The moon sends out her radiance,
The lily is lovely to see,
The fennel and the wild thyme.
These wild drakes make love,
Animals cheer their mates,
Like a stream that flows softly.
The passionate man complains, as do more;
I know that I am one of those
That is unhappy for love.

The moon sends out her light,
So does the fair, bright sun,
When birds sing gloriously.
Dews wet the downs,
Animals with their secret cries
For telling their tales.
Worms make love under ground,
Women grow exceedingly proud,
So well it will suit them.
If I don’t have what I want of one,
All this happiness I will abandon,
And quickly in the woods be a fugitive.