In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were, In habite as an heremite unholy of werkes,
Wente wide in this world wondres to here.
Ac on a May morwenynge on Malverne Hilles Me bifel a ferly, of Fairye me thoghte.
I was wery [of] wandred and wente me to reste Under a brood bank by a bournes syde;
And as I lay and lenede and loked on the watres, I slombred into a slepyng, it sweyed so murye.
Thanne gan [me] to meten a merveillous swevene— That I was in a wildernesse, wiste I nevere where. As I biheeld into the eest an heigh to the sonne, I seigh a tour on a toft trieliche ymaked,
A deep dale bynethe, a dongeon therinne,
With depe diches and derke and dredfulle of sighte. A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene— Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh.